


there was some invisible string (tying you to me)

by tjmcharg



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Red String of Fate, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 80,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmcharg/pseuds/tjmcharg
Summary: Richie and Eddie meet at six years old, tied together by a red string of fate, soulmates. Captivated with each other they fall into an immediate friendship, with the hope that one day, they'll have more. However the town of Derry, and the monster that lurks in the sewers below, doesn't take kindly to soulmates like them, leaving the two forced to protect their secret even from their closest friends.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 34
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been my pride and joy for the last eight months, it started as a vague idea of "wait what if canon was the same but richie and eddie were soulmates?" and immediately spiralled out of control. i could think of nothing else.   
> it took over my entire life, and i'm honestly so proud of what i came to write.
> 
> as always a huge thank you to my beta [almondblossoms](https://twitter.com/aImondbIossoms) this fic wouldn't exist without her (and it would be hell of a lot shorter) 
> 
> and to [eghosticamp](https://twitter.com/eghosticamp) my new friend, for helping me with the characterisation !! thank you !!!! 
> 
> the canon of this fic mostly draws on the 2017 and 2019 muschietti movies because they're what i know, but i also included some details, scenes and ideas from the book and miniseries that i liked.   
> canon is what i make it !! 
> 
> title from taylor swift's 'invisible string'
> 
> i really hope you enjoy!!
> 
> (chapter 2 will be out in one week!!!)
> 
> tw // homophobia (verbal and physical), homophobic slurs, canon-typical clown nonsense, sonia kaspbrak

On Eddie’s first day of kindergarten he meets his soulmate. At the time he doesn’t know what a soulmate is. His mother is reluctant to tell him about it, usually shutting down the questions with an instruction to “wait until he’s older”. Even at six years old Eddie has enough fire in his veins and mounting frustration to know he hates that sentence. Why should he have to wait until he’s older when he’s curious about it now, plenty big enough and smart enough to learn about the red string looped around his pinky finger. His mother disagrees, no matter how much she tells him that he’s “getting so big Eddie-bear. Soon you’ll be the big man of the house won’t you?” She won’t explain his soulmate tie to him. 

So Eddie enters kindergarten blissfully unaware of what it means to see the red string around his little finger stretch, going long and pulling through the air towards something, a thing it’s never done before. He’s distracted when it happens, still unsure of how he feels about kindergarten just yet; a little scared and lonely without his mom. He has nearly always been by her side since his dad got sick, and never apart from her at all since he died. So kindergarten is a vast scary unknown, he feels a little like the baby bird he once saw leap from the nest outside his window; terrified he will fall and hit the ground without his mother to catch him. Except, there are parts about this unknown that don’t scare him at all, parts that he feels a little guilty for enjoying so much, a little worried that if he turns around his mother’s disappointed stare will be directed at him. Like how he is allowed to go on the grass and pick up dirt between his fingers, and bite into an apple without someone cutting it up first. 

He feels that same guilty sense of excitement at the string’s movement. It’s like someone is pulling on the other end, until it’s a tight, straight line through the air. He takes a few steps forward and watches with interest as the string gets shorter but doesn’t relax, and keeps walking step by step until finally the string starts to ease and falls into a short swinging arch, no longer than Eddie’s wingspan. 

On the other end is a boy. 

The boy has messy black curls, like an explosion sitting on top of his head, nothing like Eddie’s own neatly combed hair, the boy also has huge thick black glasses that are slipping down his nose. He is missing his front two teeth, and the gap is easy to see because he’s talking so much, telling the other kids about a dinosaur Eddie has never heard of. He seems unbothered by the other kids ignoring him, bored with his continuous prattling, but Eddie is listening, he wants to know more, to know everything about this boy. The pull towards him is stronger than Eddie’s toy magnets, a desperate need to be closer and closer still. 

Eddie doesn’t even need to talk to him to know he is nothing like Eddie. Eddie’s mom doesn’t like him to go outside much, scared he will get hurt, whereas this boy has knees red from scrapes and covered almost inch by inch in brightly coloured band-aids. Whilst Eddie has been taught to be quiet and polite, to say “please and thank you” and speak only when spoken to, the boy is loud and wild, talking at full volume without a care in the world. Eddie’s mom told him that dirt and sand and grass is dirty and not safe for a delicate boy like Eddie, but the boy is sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce in the centre of a sandpit, smacking sand into a castle shaped bucket until it is flat and then up-turning it and laughing when it collapses. 

Eddie needs his attention so badly it aches. Wants to sit with him in the sandpit and bury his hands in the sand and then at the end of playtime force the boy to wash his hands so they are both cleaned up. He gives an experimental tug on the string attached to his finger, watching with eager eyes as the boy immediately snaps to attention. 

“Woah!” The boy shouts, louder than Eddie had been expecting, and with a smile wider than when he’d been talking about dinosaurs. His eyes are darting between Eddie’s hand where the string is tied and Eddie’s face, taking him in like Eddie had been doing. Eddie squirms awkwardly as he watches the boy scramble to his feet to meet Eddie outside the sandpit, hurriedly wiping his hands on the sides of his shorts to rid them off the brittle sand. 

Eddie sticks out his hand just like his mother taught him. “I’m Eddie Kaspbrak.” He says carefully, moving his mouth slowly around the ‘s’ of his surname that he so often lisped and was chastised for by his mother. 

“My name’s Richie Tozier!” The boy, Richie, replies eagerly, taking Eddie’s hand and shaking it up and down roughly. “I think this means we’re going to be best friends,” Richie tells him, sounding very sure of himself for someone who can’t be any older than Eddie. He tugs on the string between them pointedly as though to make sure Eddie knows what he’s talking about. 

Eddie nods in agreement, wondering if Richie can feel the magnetic pull that he does. “Can I play in the sand with you?” he asks, pointing at the abandoned bucket. He is itching to sit in the sand his mother would never touch, to let his hands get buried in it and to feel the crumbling texture against his skin. 

Richie’s smile only grows, so big and wide that Eddie is vaguely worried his cheeks will fall off his face. “Sure!” He says, taking Eddie by the hand and pulling him into the sandpit. “But I call dibs on the blue shovel!” 

“Mommy!” Eddie says later that day, skipping beside her as they walk home, slowing down obediently when she scolds him. 

“You could trip over and hurt yourself Eddie-bear! You’re too delicate for skipping.” 

“Yes Mommy,” he chimes, cutting over the end of her sentence. “Mommy guess what?” 

She sighs heavily, she does that a lot when Eddie acts like this, too jumpy, too excited. “What is it Eddie?” 

He isn’t deterred by her frustration, too young to pick up on the edge to her tone. Too distracted by the joy of spending the day with Richie. “I made a friend today.” 

She offers a smile at that, stretching out her hand for him to take as they make to cross the road. “That’s wonderful Eddie-bear, what’s your friend’s name?” 

“Richie Tosh-Tozh-T-” Eddie attempts his best friend’s last name to no avail. 

“Tozier?” Sonia guesses and Eddie nods, beaming. He’s not yet old enough to recognise the disappointed furrow of his mother’s brow, but he does understand the hesitation in her voice when she adds. “Oh I don’t know about him Eddie, the Toziers aren’t well behaved like you and I.” 

Eddie frowns at that, he thinks Richie is incredible. “We’re connected Mommy,” Eddie tries to explain, thinking of the magnetic pull to Richie, the tug on his string that led him to the boy. He watches now as it unspools the further they walk away from his best friend and eagerly awaits tomorrow when it will shorten again. 

“I think it would be better if you stay away from that boy Eddie-bear,” Sonia says, ignoring his claim about being connected. 

With slumped shoulders Eddie drops the subject. He knows better than to try to convince his mother of something that she claims isn’t good for him, but he also knows that he doesn’t want to stay away from Richie. For the first time in young Eddie Kaspbrak’s life, he makes the conscious decision to ignore his mother’s instructions. 

~-~-~

Eddie is eight years old when he learns what a soulmate is. He and Richie are in the same class in their second year of elementary school. They managed to rock-paper-scissors a few other kids so they have seats right next to each other, near the middle of the room because that’s Eddie’s favourite spot, so he can hear the teacher, but near the back because that’s Richie’s favourite spot, so he can whisper funny jokes to Eddie. They have two more friends now, Bill and Stan, because Richie is good at making friends and Eddie is good at keeping them around. 

The teacher draws a looping red line across the board and then adds a little bow on each end, above it she writes in thick white letters “ _Soulmates_ ” her chalk squeaking on the board. 

“Okay class, settle down.” 

Eddie grins as Richie leans back into his chair with a pout, the teacher calling their attention means Eddie won their game of hangman by default. The hum of activity in the classroom dissipates as the teacher waits patiently, her gaze piercing over the rims of her glasses. 

“Good. Now, who can tell me what a soulmate is?” 

The class remains silent, Eddie is distracted by the looping red drawing on the chalkboard, the ties on either end incredibly familiar. 

“Nobody?” The teacher questions and when the silence continues she answers for them. 

“A soulmate is the universe’s perfect match for you, every one of you has one,” she explains. Raising her pinkie finger she asks, “Can anyone tell me what I might have attached here?” At the continued silence she prompts, “That only I can see?” 

A girl with dirty blonde hair raises her hand high in the air, and the teacher gestures for her to speak. “Your red string.” 

“Perfect Greta well done!” The teacher encourages. Eddie sees Richie sit up straighter in his chair from the corner of his vision, this is an answer they have been desperate to receive but their parents kept refusing, told to wait until they were older. 

“The red string is what connects soulmates to one another, so they can find each other.” She explains, starting a dot point list on the board, the top saying ‘red string’ and the one underneath saying ‘perfect match’. Richie tugs on their string to get Eddie’s attention and grins at him, clutching his hands to his chest and swooning dramatically when Eddie smiles back. 

“Does everyone understand? Who can explain to me what a soulmate is?” The teacher asks, turning to face the class once again. 

“Two people who are perfect for each other,” someone answers from the right side of the room. 

“Good! More specifically, a man and a woman who are perfect for each other, decided by the universe and connected,” she taps the red looping line of chalk with her finger, “by a red string of fate.” 

Eddie furrows his eyebrows at ‘man and woman’, glancing at Richie confused, relieved to see he looks just as stumped by the words as Eddie is. The teacher must have made a mistake. She has moved onto an explanation of how no one else can see the string but the two soulmates but Eddie isn’t listening, having a whispered conversation with Richie. 

“Why did she say man and woman?” Eddie hisses, trying to keep as quiet as possible but still drawing the attention of a boy who glares at them for talking during class. 

“I don’t know,” Richie answers, his whisper slightly better than Eddie’s. 

“Maybe we should ask her,” Eddie suggests, leaning a little closer to Richie so he doesn’t have to whisper quite so loud but it’s too late. 

“Richard, Edward, do you have something you would like to share with the entire class?” The teacher asks, hands on her hips and glaring at them in a way that has Eddie’s stomach rolling, that’s the look his mother gives him when he’s in terrible trouble. 

“Actually Miss,” Richie says, ever more confident than Eddie in the face of adults. “I have a question.” 

The teacher sighs through her nose, irritated, Richie is known in class for being ‘a bit of a nuisance’; or at least that’s what Eddie once overheard the teachers muttering in the hallway between classes. “Yes Richard?”

“What about when two boys are soulmates?” 

The teacher startles backwards like Sonia did the time when Richie said the ‘f word’ in front of her, horrified and gasping with barely contained anger, it makes Eddie flinch backwards in his chair. 

“Excuse me?” She demands. 

Richie responds more hesitantly, his voice coming out squeaky and nervous. “You said that a soulmate is a man and woman who are perfect together but… what about when it’s a man and a man?” 

The teacher takes a sharp breath of air, her face flushed and spine rigid as a pole. “I will _not_ tolerate this type of behaviour in my classroom Mr Tozier, go to the principal’s office.” 

“But I-” Richie tries but she stomps to the door and throws it open with a crash. 

“Out! Now! The school will call your parents immediately.” 

Richie stares at her, wide eyed for a few seconds, the entire class remains deadly silent. Finally, with shaking hands and a shuddering breath that make Eddie want to reach out and wrap his best friend in a hug, Richie gets to his feet and scoops his books into his bag. Shuffling out of the room and towards the principal’s office without another word, and only a single confused and teary glance in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie watches as their string unspools, growing longer with every step Richie takes away from him. 

“Now,” the teacher says, as though regaining her sense of calm. “I don’t want any more talk of _that_ , or you will join Richard at the principal’s office. A pair of soulmates are a man and a woman, anyone who tells you differently are lying.” She stares down the class as though daring someone to speak up, Eddie’s heart thumps against the inside of his throat, confusion making his head spin. “Understood?” She demands. 

“Understood.” The class echoes back, Eddie manages to croak the word along with them. 

It is at eight years old that Eddie and Richie learn, they are not normal. 

~-~-~

The bell rings loud and clear and Richie avoids the eyes of other students as they walk past, pointing and whispering, wondering what he did thistime to end up outside the principal’s office. His mom arrived a couple of minutes ago, dressed in her work clothes and looking frazzled and upset to be called here again. She is inside now with the principal, he hears them saying something about waiting for his dad to arrive, which does nothing but make him feel worse. At the least now that class is out he can hope Eddie will come and sit with him, or maybe even Bill and Stan, but that’s unlikely, they’re both terrified of the principal’s office. 

His dad bustles through, tie crooked and hair a mess. He shoots him a worried look and a ruffle to his already messy hair before stepping into the office to join the other two adults. 

Sure enough, not even a minute later Eddie hurries into the room, fringe a little messier than usual, and inhaler clutched tight in his palm, he must have ran. 

“Richie!” He scurries over and settles into the hard plastic chair to the right of Richie. “Are you okay?” 

Richie shrugs, sniffling to try and stop a sob that builds in his throat. The hushed sounds of his parents’ voices murmur behind them, Eddie glances back nervously, always more jumpy around adults than Richie is. 

“I just don’t understand,” Richie says finally, scrubbing away a couple of tears that leak through. 

“Me neither,” Eddie says quietly. 

Richie twirls their string around his pointer finger until Eddie’s hand is crept all the way to his, a smile spreading across his face as the slow movement makes Eddie giggle. He links their pinkies together, the comfort of the contact sending warmth flooding through Richie’s body like waves lapping at the shore. Both their red bows are pressed right together by the touch, Richie’s right pinkie linked with Eddie’s left. 

“I’ll ask my mommy about it, she knows these kinds of things,” Eddie says quietly after a while of sitting in silence, he rests his head against Richie’s shoulder. 

“Okay, I’ll talk to mom and dad,” Richie answers, squishing his cheek against Eddie’s hair and smiling when he complains about him messing it up. 

After ten minutes of comfortable silence Richie's parents finally leave the room. The principal standing behind them in his menacing, looming stance that was becoming uncomfortably familiar to Richie. Richie and Eddie scramble to their feet.

“Alright Richard your parents are going to take you home now, I trust you won’t be repeating this behaviour?” The principal asks, raising a large bushy eyebrow in question. 

“No sir.” Richie replies, eyes trained on his scuffed sneakers. 

“C’mon Richie,” his dad encourages, a hand on the back of Richie’s head. He follows willingly, waving a sharp goodbye to Eddie and offering a smile as they walk away. 

The drive home is entirely silent, not in the nice way like when Richie is with Eddie, the heavy kind that pushes against Richie’s skull and makes his skin feel itchy. He watches with a scratchy throat and warm eyes threatening to spill tears as his parents glance at each other nervously, his dad’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel. 

The walk into the house is much the same, Richie spends his steps working out every possible way he can avoid the conversation he knows is coming, but no such luck. 

“Richie,” his mom says and he pauses in his tracks, one foot already on the stairs, preparing to run to his room. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Richie mumbles, tears building in his eyes for the third time that afternoon. He turns around anyway, only because he knows he should. 

His parents glance between each other again and his blood boils. 

“Stop looking at each other like that! I don’t even know what I did wrong!” He shouts, the emotions that have been bubbling under the surface finally exploding. 

His dad doesn’t even look surprised, bending down so he is crouched in front of Richie. “I know Richie. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Richie sniffs, hot tears running down his flushed, red cheeks. 

“Then why did I get in trouble?” He blubbers, shoving his glasses into his hair so he can swipe at the tears. 

His eyesight is completely obscured, so he doesn’t see Went and Maggie’s last nervous glance, but he does hear Went clear his throat nervously. 

“You were right Richie, boys can have boy soulmates.” 

Richie sniffles, shoving his glasses back onto his face, ignoring the fingerprint smudges on the lenses. 

“It’s just, most people aren’t okay with that, they think it’s unnatural and wrong, like your teacher.” 

“Is it?” Richie asks, unable to help himself. 

“Is it what Richie?” Maggie asks gently. 

He heaves a shaking breath. “Is it wrong?” 

Went hesitates, which is enough. “If your soulmate is a boy we wouldn’t love you any less.” That isn’t an answer, Richie realises, even at only eight years old he can tell when someone is dodging the real question. 

“Do you think your soulmate is a boy Richie?” His mom asks. 

He looks at them both, at the sad way his dad’s eyebrows are furrowed in worry from behind glasses almost as thick as Richie’s own. At his mom’s nervous, wide eyes, how they seem to be adding up every possible factor of this conversation and what could go wrong. 

“No.”

~-~-~

“Mommy?” Eddie asks nervously from his chair at the dining table, swinging his legs back and forth to distract himself as his mother prepares dinner. 

“Yes Eddie-bear?” Sonia responds distractedly, as she leans over to read the recipe book propped against a pot. “What is it?” She pushes when Eddie doesn’t respond, sparing a glance over at him which makes him more nervous still. 

“Can I ask you something about soulmates?” He asks, tucking his hands under his legs to keep himself from fiddling. 

Sonia pauses mid way chopping a vegetable so she can turn and face Eddie properly. He notices her left hand grabbing at the air just below her right pinkie and fiddling with it, he imagines the frayed, cut end of a red string hanging there. Just after Richie was sent from the room, and once the teacher had fully calmed again, she had explained that a person whose soulmate was dead was left with a cut string hanging from their finger, a reminder of the person they loved with them at all times. 

He feels a pang of sadness for his mother in that moment, as she fiddles with what is left of her reminder to his father. 

“You learnt about soulmates today in class?” She asks instead of granting permission. 

Eddie nods, swinging his legs again and watching as his sneakers rise into his vision and fall back below his chair. “I was just wondering, well… today Richie asked a question and he got in a whole lotta trouble for it.” Sonia’s expression darkens at mention of Richie, she doesn’t approve of their friendship, especially since Richie has no qualms about roughing Eddie up and he often sports bruises and scrapes from their tousles. 

She returns to her cooking with a sniff. “What did that boy do now?” 

“He asked, what about when soulmates are two boys?” 

The reaction is instantaneous. Sonia makes a choking noise, dropping the knife and letting it clatter to the floor, spinning on Eddie with the same flushed cheeks as their teacher that day. 

“Why would he ask such a _vile_ thing? Boys do not have soulmates who are other boys, Eddie do you understand me?” She grabs Eddie’s arm so tightly her fingerprints seem to be holding onto his bone. 

“Mommy, you’re hurting me,” he complains, pushing at her grip with his small palm. 

“Promise me you won’t let him fill your head with dirty thoughts like _that_ , promise me Eddie-bear,” she hisses, her grip still tight and hard.

A sharp sobbing noise escapes his throat, he thinks of Richie’s hand holding his, their string looping around the joined press of their palms. That wasn’t vile, was it? That wasn’t dirty. 

“Promise me Eddie.” His mother demands. 

“I promise mommy,” he whispers, relieved as she finally lets go of his arm, a harsh pink handprint left behind against his pale skin. 

~-~-~ 

Richie runs over to where Eddie is waiting by the playground, five minutes earlier than when Bill and Stan will show up so they can talk privately. Eddie is sitting on the ground, pulling tufts of grass out with his fingers nervously and dropping them blade by blade onto the ground beside his feet. 

“Eds!” Richie calls, pulling Eddie into an awkward sitting down hug once he gets close enough. 

“Hi Richie,” Eddie says, muffled into Richie’s shoulder. 

They pull apart quickly. Richie remembers the mean older kid who called them names for hugging. 

“I talked to Mom and Dad about why I got in trouble,” Richie admits, cutting straight to the chase when he sees Eddie’s wide, worried eyes. “They said some people think two boys shouldn’t be soulmates. That it’s wrong.” 

Eddie sniffs, holding up his wrist where a dark purple bruise is starting to form, five long lines wrapping around the small, thin limb. A hand. “My mommy thinks it’s wrong,” he says quietly. 

Richie wants to scream at Eddie’s mom, wants to punch her with his fists and step on her toes like Stan did to Richie that time he tried to catch a sparrow in his hands. 

He doesn’t say any of that, he knows Eddie loves his mom a whole lot, even when she’s nothing like Richie’s mom. Saying he wants to punch her would only hurt him. 

“Well…” Richie says, thinking of their teacher’s words, Mrs Kaspbrak’s reaction, his parents’ fears. “Maybe we’re the ones that got confused?” 

Eddie tips his head like a curious puppy, eyes wet and watery with unshed tears. “What do you mean?” 

“Maybe we’re not proper soulmates like my Mom and Dad, not the get married and kiss type soulmates,” Richie explains. Eddie wrinkles his nose at the mention of kissing and Richie silently agrees with his disgusted assessment. Kissing is gross. 

“Maybe we’re the best friends forever type soulmates?” 

Eddie nods slowly. Richie can see understanding dawning in his big eyes, bottom lip secured between his teeth as he chews and considers Richie’s proposition. 

“That makes sense…” Eddie says finally. “I don’t think I like the sound of _kissing_ -” Eddie pulls another disgusted face, “-but I do wanna be your friend forever and ever.” 

Richie grins, feeling better by the second. “Yeah!” He exclaims excitedly. “Best friends forever!” He lifts his hand for a high five, smiling wider when Eddie reciprocates immediately.

A smile finally makes its way to Eddie’s apple round cheeks. “Best friends forever,” he agrees. The smile slips away to be replaced with a frown when his eyes fall on the bruises still wrapped around his wrist. 

“I still don’t think my mommy will be happy about us being any kind of soulmates…” Eddie admits quietly, his eyes welling up with tears again as he continues to stare at his wrist. 

Richie is determined to make him feel better, nothing in the world matters except seeing Eddie smile. 

“She doesn’t need to know,” Richie promises. At Eddie’s curious look he explains more. “We can keep it the biggest secret ever, know one needs to know except you and me. Just in case.” 

Eddie sticks out his pinky, the soft red line of their string hanging between them. 

“Promise we’ll keep it a secret forever and ever?” 

Richie nods, twisting his wrist awkwardly so he can link his right pinky with Eddie’s left. Both their soulmate ties pressed side by side. 

“I promise.” 

~-~-~

For such young kids, Eddie is almost impressed that they were able to keep that secret. By the age of thirteen still no one but he and Richie know they are soulmates, which isn’t always the easiest secret to keep. Especially since as they get older, talk of who their soulmate will be, how hot “she” will be and where they think they will meet “her” only grows more commonplace. It’s a testament to their fear of what will happen to them if anyone finds out that they are so capable of hiding it at this point, Derry is no place to be a young gay boy. Derry is no place for anyone. 

He and Richie remain best friends nonetheless, much to the distaste of Sonia, who still harbers a hatred for ‘that Tozier boy’. Richie does a pretty alright job of staying balanced on the line between her good side and bad side, just well behaved enough that she has no grounds to outright ban Eddie from hanging out with him, but just bad enough that his dislike for her is just as evident as hers for him. It’s a tentative balance. 

She much prefers Bill to Richie and Stan, because according to her, he is a respectable and well mannered young boy, the good influence she has always wanted around Eddie. Which is utter bullshit, and if anything the good influence in their friendship quartet is more likely to be Stan - although he’s just as much of an instigator as the rest of them. 

_Good influence my ass_ , he thinks with a huff as Bill and Richie splash into the murky water of the sewer pipe. He gags at the smell wafting from the dirty tunnel, the greywater filled with trash and so much bacteria it makes Eddie feel ill just from the idea of it. 

Bill’s so-called ‘good influence’ has gone completely down the drain - _ha_ \- since Georgie disappeared, and to be fair, a lot has changed since Georgie disappeared. Eddie understands why Bill is quieter than usual, and why when he does speak his stutter is so bad he can barely form a complete sentence, riddled with so much anxiety at the loss of his younger brother that he makes Eddie’s neurosis look like pure normality. That doesn’t mean that he is going to roll up his pant legs and wade into sewerage like he’s watching his soulmate currently do. 

“You coming Eduardo?” Richie calls over his shoulder, poking into the water with a stick like he’s up to his ankles in quarry water and nothing more. 

Eddie shakes his head, wrinkling his nose as the movement only makes the smell envelope him more thoroughly. “Nuh uh, that’s greywater.” 

Richie pauses in his wading, bending down to squint at the water. “It’s what?” He asks. 

“Greywater, it’s basically piss and shit man.” 

Richie pokes the stick into the water and brings it up to his face, sniffing deeply like it was a pie Maggie had just taken out of the oven. “Doesn’t smell like caca to me Eds.” 

“Richie if you don’t get that gross ass stick away from your face I’ll-” 

“You’ll what Eds?” Richie teases, scooping a plastic bag onto the stick and throwing it in Eddie’s direction, grinning when Eddie jumps away with a screech. “How’re you gonna get to me when you can’t even come near the _greywater_.” 

“Because it’s unsanitary you fucking maniac! Richie! Don’t go further in! Richard!” 

“Ooh my full name, bringing out the big guns,” Richie hums, resolutely ignoring Eddie’s protests and poking through the grime with his stick. Eddie watches horrified as he moves far enough away that their string goes completely lax, floating through the dirty water in swirling patterns. 

He pretends he can’t see Stan’s eye roll as he continues to shout abuse and health statistics at Richie’s back. 

“S-S-Stan?” Bill says, his voice soft and unsure but immediately capturing all three’s attention. “Are you g-g-gonna help?” 

Stan winces, staring at the water like it has personally affronted him. “You know I’d do anything for you Bill, but this is insanity. You heard what Eddie said, we could get any kind of disease being in that.” 

Eddie nods, grateful for his _singular_ sanefriend. “Listeria, staph infection, diarrhea, not to mention infections!” he lists, fingers twitching from his inhaler just at the idea of the aneurism his mother would have if she knew he was even within a few feet of this sewer system. 

“B-b-but,” Bill cuts himself off with a grunt of frustration, they all wait patiently for him to finish his sentence. “W-what about G-G-Georgie. What if he’s d-d-down here?” 

Eddie isn’t sure what to say to that, and when he glances at Richie and Stan he can see they feel the same. That’s the whole reason they’re down here in the first place, what can they possibly say to rebut Bill, when Georgie is missing, when Georgie is gone. It already hurts Eddie enough, knowing that little boy who was essentially a younger brother to all four of them, is who knows where. He can’t even imagine what it’s like for Bill. 

“H-h-he could get those diseases too.” 

They’re all saved from having to reply by a loud splash from outside, drawing all their attention in a split second. 

“What the fuck was that?” Richie asks, taking the lead in hurrying out of the drain pipe and back out into the splashing water of the barrens. 

In the water is a boy Eddie thinks he might recognise from school, chubby, round and bent on his hands and knees, clutching a wound sliced along the side of his fat, round tummy. 

“Holy _shit,_ what happened to you?” Richie asks the question on all of their minds. The boy looks up at them, attempting to scramble to his feet and failing, splashing back into the water, the blood on his face, hands and stomach turning the water around him a shade of red. 

“He needs help,” Bill says softly, and that’s all it takes to launch them into action. Eddie and Stan jump along the rocks to reach the boy, hauling him to his feet and tugging him over to Bill’s bike, the only one strong enough to take two people at once. 

“Thank you,” the boy says quietly.

Stan shrugs on behalf of all of them, throwing a leg over his own bike and starting to pedal off. “It’s no big deal.” 

~-~-~

Ben is actually quite a nice kid, in Richie’s well educated opinion. No Eddie, but that’s a no-brainer, there isn’t a person alive who can compare to Eddie. Richie also isn’t willing to say Ben’s nicer than Stan, but he might have Bill beat, at least since Georgie went missing, Bill’s a bit of a bomb waiting to explode these days. Regardless, Ben is nice, he listens patiently as Richie rattles on about whatever he can think of, trying to distract the boy from the sizeable gash in his stomach and the pain that was likely causing, and he even laughs at the number of jokes that Richie doles out - even though they’re not his best. 

“So, Bowers got to you?” Richie asks, squinting at the bloody ‘H’ carved into Ben’s side. The boy in question shrugs, wincing as the skin on his side shifts. 

“Yeah, hates me for some reason.” 

Richie raises a hand in high-five on instinct. “Me too man!” He grins as Ben taps his hand against Richie’s willingly, smiling a little through the pain. 

“Why does he hate you?” 

What a question. Richie blows out air slowly, trying to work out how to respond. In all honesty, Bowers hates Richie, and all his friends, because they are sizable, easy prey who can’t fight back and might as well have targets painted on their backs. Eddie, the hypochondriac who talks fast enough he can give himself an asthma attack, Bill, the kid with the stutter, Stanley, the Jewish boy with an affinity for birds, and Richie. The gay boy. Not that anyone knows that of course, not even Eddie. 

Their soulmate tie doesn’t mean to Eddie what it means to Richie, and whether that’s his own young self’s fault for suggesting that they aren’t “proper soulmates” Richie can’t be sure. 

All he knows is that these days he wants less and less to be ‘platonic’ soulmates and more to explore something deeper; something he wouldn’t dare suggest to Eddie, not when he knows how he feels about their soulmate connection. Not when he knows how grateful he is that it is no more than a sign they are to be best friends forever. He wouldn’t put Eddie through that. Derry has already made it clear that if Richie is right, and their string _should_ mean more than the platonic connection they’ve always assumed, they would be killed. No one even knows for sure he’s gay and yet ‘faggot’ is thrown in his face more often than his own name, and his face has been introduced to concrete with a hiss of “gay fairy” more times than he can count. 

“Easy target,” Richie says instead, gesturing up and down his body loosely, emphasising his scrawny limbs and weak frame. Ben nods in understanding, shifting against the crate, hand still cradling his stomach cautiously. “He did quite the number on ya, ‘ay gov’na?” Richie breaks the tension with his ‘British guy’ Voice, it’s not his best, but it’s a classic. 

“Are you tormenting the poor kid with your Voices Richie?” Stan’s voice asks from behind and Richie spins around on his heel with an affronted gasp. 

“Why I never!” He cries, slipping into the Southern Belle Voice a little less smoothly than he would like. “My Voices would never torment, I say never!” He throws a hand to his forehead, unable to hide a proud smile as Eddie huffs a laugh and then covers it with a cough as though Richie isn’t always listening for a reaction from him. 

“Tell that to my ears,” Eddie grumbles, dropping a pile of medical equipment to the floor and glaring at Richie in that way that makes his blood run warm. Richie throws an arm over his shoulders to distract himself from the fluttering in his stomach that’s becoming increasingly commonplace these days whenever Eddie so much as looks at him. He relishes in the way Eddie makes a hissing noise of complaint but leans into the touch, a tinge of red rising along his cheekbones. 

“You love my Voices Eds,” Richie croons, leaning close so he’s breathing the words hot into Eddie’s ear, exactly as he hates. 

Sure enough Eddie screeches in complaint, slapping at Richie’s face until he moves away. “You’re the worst Richie,” Eddie grumbles but the softness of his eyes gives away the fondness underneath. “And don’t call me Eds,” he adds like an afterthought. 

Richie salutes him faux seriously, taking pleasure in the suspicious squint of Eddie’s glare and Stan’s barely concealed smile. “Of course Eddie Spaghetti.” 

“Worse,” Eddie grunts, crouching next to Ben’s large stomach and pulling a pair of gloves from his fanny pack to get to work. 

“Worse!” Richie shouts. “How could it be?” He looks to Stan for assistance, grinning when he plays along and shrugs as though he can’t think of an issue Eddie would take with the pet name. “Dr K I do believe you should be focusing on our patient, and not the benefits of my exquisite nicknames for you, good sir.” 

“I most definitely fucking said worse not better, so there clearly isn’t any benefits to your nicknames,” Eddie spiels, peeling Ben’s battered t-shirt away from the wound and wincing in sympathy along with him. “Besides what do you think I’m doing fucknuts?” 

“Getting distracted by my devilish charm of course,” Richie says. _Success_ he thinks, watching the way Eddie’s ears go pink. 

“You wouldn’t know charm if I beat you over the head with it,” Eddie grumbles but otherwise isn’t distracted from the medical task at hand. Losing out to a stomach wound, not the best challenge but at least understandable. 

Bill finally emerged from the pharmacist, and trailing behind was Beverly Marsh. 

“What’s Beverly doing with Big Bill?” Richie asks, leaning over to Stan and lowering his voice so she won’t be able to hear him as they approach the group. 

Stan huffs, clearly not pleased with the development. “She helped distract Mr Keene so we could steal the shit we needed,” he explains. “Bill didn’t want to leave her alone to do that so he waited for her.” 

Richie lets out a low whistle, Bill has had a considerable crush on Beverly since the third grade. Richie understood it he supposed, she was nice as far as he knew, and she was pretty enough. 

“Who’s Beverly?” Ben asks, trying to lean forward past Richie and Stan to get a glimpse of the girl and grunting in frustration when Eddie levels him a glare and pushes him back against the wall. 

Richie turns to him with a cocked eyebrow. “Man you really are new here. You haven’t seen Beverly around?” Ben shakes his head. Even though he clearly hasn’t Richie continues, “red hair, has probably stabbed a person, supposedly fucked every guy in the- Hey Beverly!” Richie cuts himself off with a laugh as Stan’s elbow hits him right between the ribs. 

There wasn’t much point to it anyway, she doesn’t even seem to hear him, eyes fixed on Ben like he hung every star in the sky. Although that isn’t quite accurate, she isn’t looking at Ben’s face, she’s looking at where his hand is resting on the side of his stomach. Transfixed in place, a starry eyed happy smile shining across her face, Ben’s expression doing the same thing right back at her. 

_Oh._

“Holy shit, you’re my soulmate,” Beverly gasps. 

“I-I-I, yeah. Hi,” Ben says back. He is so awed by her presence, focus shifting between her face and her right hand where Richie presumes the string is tied. 

“You sound just like Bill,” Richie chuckles, hissing in pain when Stan elbows him in the exact same spot he hit not even a minute ago. “Fucking _ow_.” 

“Beep beep Richie, let them have their moment,” Stan hisses back. 

Beverly and Ben pay them no mind, still busy staring at each other, neither seeming willing to look away any time soon. 

“I’m Bev,” she introduces, taking a step forward and hesitating when she finally realises the wound Ben is sporting. “Oh my god what happened?” 

Ben winces, finally remembering himself as well and moving his arm out of the way so Eddie can continue patching him up. “Bowers got to me, I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.” She crosses her arms tight over her chest, worry and anger clouding her features. 

Ben doesn’t reply, averting his eyes, not much point disputing it when Eddie is still doing his best to clean up the blood. 

“I’m Ben, by the way,” he says instead. 

“Sorry to interrupt the moment,” Eddie interjects. His awkwardness from being so surrounded by this intimate moment palpable to Richie, but Ben and Beverly don’t seem to notice. “I’m gonna start cleaning the actual wound so this will probably hurt.” Ben nods in permission for Eddie to go ahead, brows furrowed nervously but otherwise brave in the face of the likely pain to follow. 

Beverly kneels beside him, reaching out her hand for him to take and holding it tight. “I’m here if you need me,” she says softly, kissing his knuckle when he lets out a little grunt of pain past the warm smile he’s offering her. 

Richie feels a horrible clawing jealousy in the base of his stomach, itching and cold. It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong to be so angry that they get to be happy. If anything he should be seeping with happiness that Ben has someone like his _soulmate_ to help him through what was surely a terrifying and now incredibly painful thing; but he’s not happy for them right now. Instead he wants to scream, and bury his head into his hands and sob. 

The red line between him and Eddie has never seemed so stark, he can feel it, tight around his pinky finger. A reminder that the person he loves more than anyone, not only should love him back and _doesn’t_ , but he can’t even love openly. Isn’t allowed to love openly. God knows he gets enough punches to the stomach, shattered glasses lenses and black eyes without Derry knowing their claims were true. 

_Richie sucks flamer cock_. Written in harsh scratches on every bathroom wall in the fucking school. He gets called a faggot more than any of the rest of them. He wonders if it's because they all know it’s true. If they can see the way he looks at Eddie and lights up, how more than anything else, at all times, he needs Eddie to be looking at him, to be laughing with him, to smile at him. How, between every class he runs through the hallways to catch up with Eddie, to throw his arm over his shoulders, tease him until he goes red in the face, until all his attention is on Richie. Until all he sees is Richie. Look at me, please god look at me, look at me and never look away. He doesn’t just want, he _needs_. Maybe everyone at school can see that. 

So it hurts. Seeing Ben and Beverly able to openly tell the four of them that they just met their soulmate, people they have barely spoken to before this day, when Richie can’t even tell Stan, his best friend. 

It hurts. How they can hold hands and smile at each other, how Beverly is murmuring things to Ben to distract him from Eddie’s work. When Richie so much as gets too close to Eddie and someone is shoving between them, spitting in his face and calling them gross, and they don’t even know. 

It hurts. That they seem to know, without a doubt, they are soulmates, and therefore one day they will have a romantic connection. He almost hates them for it. 

Richie looks at Eddie, who is resolutely not looking anywhere but the wound he is cleaning. He will never love Richie the way Richie loves him, like there’s so much of it that it is spilling out of him, like he could suffocate from it, drown in it, but wants more of it anyway. 

“All done,” Eddie pulls Richie out of his thoughts with a clap, dusting his hands against his knees and getting to his feet. 

Ben looks down at the now bandaged cut at smiles gratefully. “Thank you Eddie, it means a lot.” 

Eddie shrugs, Richie watches the tense, self-conscious lines of his shoulders. “It’s nothing. What are friends for?” 

A slow blooming smile stretches across Ben’s round cheeks. “Yeah, friends,” he murmurs wistfully. So mesmerized by the idea that Richie wants to punch himself in the face for even insinuating that he could hate him. 

“I’m sorry, I completely ignored you guys,” Beverly apologises, getting to her feet and stretching a hand out to help Ben do the same. “I just… I got distracted.” She scratches the back of her head sheepishly. 

“I-I-It’s fine B-Beverly,” Bill says, reassuringly. “W-we understand.” 

Beverly waves a hand, “call me Bev,” she insists. 

“Not everyday you get to meet your soulmate,” Stan says, his voice taking that dreamlike quality he always does when he talks about soulmates, infatuated with the idea. 

“No,” she says, turning to Ben with that same starry eyed expression as before. Richie swallows down the envy scratching at his throat. “I suppose it’s not.” 

“Have any of you met your soulmate?” Ben asks, pushing the spotlight from himself determinedly, his face almost as red as Bev’s hair. 

Richie grabs Eddie’s second fanny pack from where it’s lying on the floor to avoid eye contact, shoving spare bandages and various swabs Eddie has left lying around in haphazardly. 

“N-no,” Bill answers honestly, Stan echoing the sentiment with a soft smile. 

“Nope,” Richie lies, popping the ‘p’. He hands the fanny pack to Eddie without a word and nodding as Eddie smiles gratefully, nudging their shoulders together. 

“How about you Eddie?” Bev asks, kindly. 

Richie swallows roughly as Eddie twirls the string around his finger twice, bringing their hands close enough together that their fingers brush but not taking it. 

“Not yet.” 

~-~-~

Eddie’s footsteps are loud against the hot asphalt. He had just split off from Richie and Bill, each taking different streets to go their separate ways home. Usually Eddie is the first to separate, not willing to walk an extra street and have to cut through Neibolt street to get to his house. In his defense, today of all days he had just wanted to stay near Richie a little bit longer. 

He isn’t entirely sure what it was he felt when Bev and Ben saw each other. The scene reminded him a little bit of meeting Richie for the first time, back when he was only six years old, but he didn’t really remember that all too well now. Bev’s eyes had glistened with excitement and Ben had gone so into shock that he was able to forget Eddie was operating his stomach. It was something beautiful he hadn’t imagined he’d get the chance to see. Except, the way his stomach had rolled, and the palms of his hands went itchy and clammy, hadn’t been a nice feeling. He couldn’t pinpoint what about it had left his skin crawling like there were spiders itching along under the flesh of his arms, but he had known that he just wanted to be near Richie, standing next to him. 

How he feels about Richie is a mystery these days. He makes Eddie want to scream, he’s so irritating, but he’s also the best person in Eddie’s life. He knows exactly which buttons to push to make Eddie go off his rocket, and always seems to do so at the most inopportune of moments, but he’s also observant enough to go silent when Eddie needs him to, or knows exactly when to pull a ridiculous Voice until Eddie is laughing despite himself. 

When walking home earlier Richie had seemed off, not his usual self, like something was on his mind. He still filled the entire walk home with chatter, jokes and teasing comments about Ben and Bev, but Eddie noticed the way his jokes seemed to fall flat and his eyes didn’t have that usual sparkle. 

Still, as Eddie had said goodbye, sending Bill and Richie off at the corner with a smile and a wave, Richie’s grin had been the same as always. His stomach tickles again just at the thought of it. Which is stupid, there’s nothing to be nervous about, it’s Richie. Eddie isn’t even sure how to interpret the way his body is reacting these days, how when Richie teases him about how “cute cute cute” he is, pinching at Eddie’s cheeks and squishing their faces together, he doesn’t get filled with anger like he used to but goes warm from tip to toes and his cheeks go flushed. How when Richie smiles goodbye, instead of just walking off, not thinking twice like he used to, Eddie has weird flutters in his stomach at just the thought of it. How, at the thought of Richie’s big blue eyes magnified and bright behind his coke bottle glasses, and the wide stretch of his smile revealing crooked and too big teeth - despite his dad being a dentist - Eddie’s heart does a weird skip. It’s confusing, and Eddie doesn’t like that he doesn’t understand it. 

He doesn’t like that his brain is stuck on the idea of Richie holding his hand like Bev held Ben’s, not in a best friend way, not like they did sometimes when nobody was looking, but in a ‘could be romantic’ way. They have always said their soulmate connection is nothing more than friendship, and Eddie has always been determined to keep it that way. He’s too scared of his mother, of the town, of the world, to admit that he wants more. He doesn’t like that he wants it, but he even more hates the idea of never having it. 

He’s so preoccupied with thoughts of Richie that he almost doesn’t notice he’s passing the Neibolt house. Almost, but not quite. It’s difficult to not notice it, dark and looming. Splintered and decayed, the walls barely holding themselves together, boards covering cracks and windows despite the fact that they needn’t be covered at all. No one has lived there in years, but that doesn’t stop Eddie from staring at the door as he passes, terrified to see something, but also almost expecting it. It’s the kind of house where there should be an old witch in the doorway, forgoing the candy house altogether, instead beckoning with a crooked finger and a menacing smile. 

His watch beeps. 

“Fuck not now,” he says to no one in particular, fumbling with his fanny pack to get his pill out, the faster he can get away the better. The house seems to be watching him as he struggles with the bottle, sweaty fingers slipping on the plastic. Goosebumps prick the back of his neck, like eyes boring into him. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters, trying to scrabble at the lid while walking rather than standing in front of the dilapidated building. 

“Will that cure me?” A rasping voice asks. The bottle slips through Eddie’s fingers. As he looks up the haunted and empty eyes of a leper stare back, rotting from his very core. Eddie can see saliva and mucus dripping from his lopsided chin as he leers down at him, grotting and disease ridden bandages hanging loosely from every part of his body, hair slicked to his grey skin with grease. 

“Come on Eddie, spare a pill for the sick?” The leper begs hoarsely, his grin missing so many teeth that he hardly has any. 

“I’ll blow you in return, wouldn’t that be a nice trade?” 

Eddie stumbles backwards, the pills on the ground forgotten. His eyes dart around the street, the leper is standing in the middle of the road, blocking the path to Eddie’s house, but if he goes the other way he’ll be home after dark and his mother will have his head. 

“You don’t like my offer,” the leper guesses, his mouth drooping as if mocking a frown. “Maybe I should ask _Richie_?” 

Eddie freezes mid step. 

“Ooh struck a nerve,” the leper mocks, hobbling forwards, his leg dragging behind him, bound by bandages and oozing with an unidentifiable liquid. “Oh Eddie,” the leper says, tone deprecating and dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “He doesn’t want you like that, he’ll _never_ want you like that.” 

Eddie whimpers, frozen in place by fear. 

“But I’ll do it for you,” he chuckles gaily, swinging his diseased arms from side to side. “I’ll do it for a dime, I’ll do it any time.” 

“No,” Eddie rasps, his throat dry as sandpaper. The leper tuts, creeping further towards Eddie. “Is my price too high? I’ll do it for free if you’d like,” he sneers, stretching his hand forward like he’s offering it to Eddie in the palm of his sickly hand. 

“No,” Eddie repeats, firmer, stepping backwards and almost tripping over his own feet. 

The leper frowns with the only lip still attached to its face, the rest decayed away with time. “I’d be just as good as Richie, you’ve got to give up on him Eddie. Remember what he said? You’re not proper soulmates, you’re destined to be _best friends forever_.” The hand that had been reaching out to Eddie instead seizes a hold of Eddie’s string hanging by his side. Eddie can’t breathe, no one can see his string, except him and Richie, no one knows their secret except him and Richie. 

“This string doesn’t mean anything Eddie,” the leper hisses, it’s breath hot and reeking as it hits his cheek. The leper mimics cutting the string with two decaying fingers, giggling to himself. “No matter how much _you_ want _him_ , he doesn’t want you. He knows you’re sick, like me, but that’s okay… we have each other.” 

The leper lunges, mouth gaping wide, and Eddie shrieks, ducking under its arm and running as fast as he can. Faster than his asthma should allow and then faster still. He runs, and runs and doesn’t stop, not when his lungs start burning, not when he reaches his street, not until he is doubled over on his front lawn. Checking and double checking over his shoulder that he wasn’t followed and scrubbing harshly at the tear tracks on his cheek, whipped dry from running. 

_He doesn’t want you_. 

~-~-~

Richie shakes his foot, a stream of water leaking out of the soaked sneaker. 

“You know,” he says amiably, his feet making squelch sounds every time they hit the ground, “usually people don’t make friends in life or death situations.” 

Mike smiles back at him, the newest edition to their little group since they found Bowers trying to beat him to death and saved him via rock fight. 

“But I suppose,” Richie continues when no one else steps forward to speak. “Nothing like a little adrenaline to bring people together. I’m just saying it’s not the most normal technique.” 

“You implying you’re _normal_ Richie?” Bev teases, skipping at the front of the pack, Ben following two steps behind her. She fits easily into the group, brash and bold when she needs to be and just as adept at setting Richie in his place as Eddie. Richie adores her. 

He staggers backwards, clutching his chest. “Ooh Beverly gets off a good one!” 

“What the fuck does that even mean asshat?” Eddie asks before Bev can respond. Glaring at Richie, from a few paces ahead. He’s red faced from screaming at Bowers and his hair is a mess from all the running they’ve done, socks sagging from the weight of the water from splashing around to get more rocks. He’s the most beautiful boy Richie’s ever seen. 

Richie grins, bouncing forward and tugging Eddie into a loose headlock, ignoring his screeches of protest. “Glad you asked my good fellow,” he says in the British Guy, launching into an extremely inaccurate and roundabout story which has nothing to do with what Eddie asked him. It doesn’t matter, the silly anecdotes are making Eddie laugh and even Stan is coughing into his fist to disguise chuckles. 

“Hey guys?” Mike says after a few minutes of Richie and Eddie’s playful jabs. All six other Losers immediately turn forward to look at him, surprised by the seriousness of his tone. “Thank you for helping me, you really shouldn’t have, but thank you.” 

“W-why shouldn’t we have helped you?” Bill asks, brows almost hiding his eyes with how furrowed they are. 

“Now they’ll be after you too,” Mike says apologetically. 

Eddie lets out a sharp bark of laughter that has even Richie surprised by its brashness. “Bowers? He’s always after us.” 

Bill nods. “Easy m-m-meat.” 

“Yeah!” Richie agrees. “Welcome to the Losers Club Mikey! You’re one of us now.” 

Mike seems satisfied by the response, his shoulders relaxing as they continue their trek. They laugh all the way to Memorial Park, Richie running ahead, tugging Eddie after him, Bev threatening to throw her sopping shoe at his head if he doesn’t slow down. Mike is another perfect fit into the group, laughing wild and free when Richie attempts to frog leap over Stan’s head and gets chewed out for two entire blocks. It’s like he was always meant to be a part of their circle, like they weren’t whole until all seven of them were together, but now they’re a perfect set. 

Predictably the laughter dies when the conversation about dead (sorry, _missing_ ) kids starts, it’s a bit of a mood dampener. 

“Wait I don’t get it,” Eddie says, licking the final drops of his ice cream from his fingers. “You’re saying this… thing, comes out every twenty-seven years-” 

“Oddly specific,” Richie chimes in. 

Eddie nods in agreement. “To feed on kids for a year, then just goes back into hibernation?” 

Bill and Ben both look back at the two of them like that’s the most normal thing in the world, nothing to question here, move on with your day. 

“That doesn’t make any sense, we all saw different things,” Stan points out. Richie has been watching him since the start of the conversation, and the longer it has gone on the more distressed and hunched Stan has become. 

“I think it changes, it knows what we’re scared of,” Mike says, he’s quiet Richie’s noticed, but when he speaks it’s like he has carefully chosen what he wants to say, he’s sure of his words. Nothing like Richie, who speaks and then regrets soon after. 

“How come I haven’t seen any of this shit?” Richie asks, throwing his hands in the air. The sky is a bright and brilliant blue, they should be playing in the quarry, or riding their bikes, or having fun, it’s _summer_ for god’s sake. 

“I d-don’t know,” Bill admits, he’s got that sadness behind his eyes again, that means he’s thinking about Georgie. 

Richie is half a second away from telling them they’re all either insane and having hallucinations, or playing the world’s meanest practical joke on him, when Eddie clears his throat. 

“I saw a leper,” he says, his voice trembling and so soft that Richie almost misses it. “He was… he was like a walking infection, he said-” Richie waits with bated breath but Eddie cuts himself off and doesn’t continue his sentence. The string between them jerks as Eddie fiddles with it and twirls it around his fingers the way he always does when he’s nervous. 

“You didn’t see anything Eddie,” Stan says like he’s trying to convince himself too. “Neither did I, neither did Bill. None of us did. It’s not real, it doesn’t make sense.” Stan stares at the ground determinedly. “They’re just bad dreams, it’s just our own brains throwing our worst fear back at us.” 

Eddie flinches as if Stan screamed the words in his face and Richie has to fight the urge to bury him in a hug. Whatever the leper said to him, Eddie clearly doesn’t want to believe it was his own mind saying it. 

Richie doesn’t want to believe any of this is real, isn’t sure that he does, but Eddie believes it, and that is more than enough for him to take it seriously. 

“I th-th-think it is real, Stan. I c-c-couldn’t make up something like that,” Bill stutters, stretching his fingers to busy his hands. 

Mike makes a noise of agreement. “I’ve had memories of my parents’ death before, this was nothing like that.” They all look at him in concern but he doesn’t give them the chance to speak up before barreling on. “We all have something we’re afraid of, I think IT can manipulate that.” 

It, with a capital I and a capital T. It isn’t just an unknown creature anymore. It’s like they have given IT a name. 

“You got that right,” Richie huffs without even thinking, the words jumping from his brain straight out his mouth without his input. 

“Why Rich?” Bev asks, her knees clutched to her chest protectively. “What are you afraid of?” 

Richie thinks of Bowers shoving him to the ground by his backpack, screaming “faggot” in his face. He thinks of his teacher back when he was eight years old, going so red with anger that Richie had thought she might explode, screaming at him to go to the principal for insinuating a boy could love another boy. He thinks of conversations with his best friends, ducking around the topic of soulmates and trying not to look Eddie in the eyes, terrified of being found out, of what it will mean for them. Of the fear in his parents’ eyes when they thought he _might_ have a soulmate who was a boy. The harsh purple bruise around Eddie’s thin wrist, just from asking his mother a question. 

He thinks of Bowers holding his head against the ground and hissing in his ear. “You know what we do to fairies in this town Tozier?” The sharp press of a knife to the centre of his spine, hidden from any passersby by Bowers’ sleeve. 

What if everyone knew it was true? 

He swallows roughly, he’s been silent too long. The fair behind them rustles with activity, the sounds of playful music and children laughing, a clown on the stage. 

“Clowns,” he says finally, avoiding eye contact with any of his friends. 

Unable to help it he glances at Eddie, already looking back at him, the furrow of his eyebrows indication enough that he doesn’t believe Richie. 

~-~-~

Hanging out with just Mike and Ben is always a wild card. They’re awesome friends, and when they actually hang out it’s always heaps of fun. Except, sometimes it left Edde lying on the floor, throwing a rubber ball in the air and catching it, while pretending it’s just as entertaining as his friends talking to him; while said friends read historical documents, for fun. 

Ever since their conversation about IT, and the different ways the creature has appeared to them, Ben and Mike have been obsessed with finding more information, information that could help them recover Georgie. Which Eddie appreciates, and honestly is actually really cool, he would be more appreciative if he wasn’t bored and lonely. This barely passes as being more entertaining than sitting at home with his mother, watching shitty reality television and pretending he doesn’t feel like the walls are closing in. Which is saying something. 

He wishes Richie had been able to come out today, he always makes Ben and Mike’s history sessions more interesting. He takes the boring stories Ben and Mike have finished with and spins them into wild and increasingly ridiculous tales until Eddie is in fits of laughter, beaming his ridiculous smile and making Eddie’s heart do that stupid jump. Eddie has sometimes wondered how Richie would react if Eddie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek the way he sometimes does to him; teasing of course, always a loud smacking wet kiss when Eddie’s screaming bloody murder at Richie for whatever stupid thing he’s done most recently. It’s probably a soulmate thing, wanting to always be closer to Richie, wanting to take his hand like Bev and Ben do, for the cheek kiss to not be a joke. 

_“He doesn’t want you.”_

The leper’s voice grates in his mind, the rasping drawl hissing in his ear. Its words have been chasing Eddie for weeks now. He knows that Derry says boys shouldn’t be soulmates, and even more so that boys don’t like other boys, not like _that_. Eddie’s just never allowed himself to consider what that would mean for him and Richie once they finally got out of Derry, not since their conversation as kids. Has never stopped to consider what their string means to him, what _he_ wants, rather than what he’s told he shouldn’t want, what he’s always thought he should want. 

_“This string doesn’t mean anything Eddie.”_

He fumbles with the ball, dropping it onto his face as the leper seems to growl the words in his ear. 

“Hey guys?” He says, breaking the silence of the room. Ben and Mike’s fingers stop their page turning, looking up curiously at Eddie. 

“Yeah Eddie?” Ben asks, letting the book fall open to save his page, turning his full attention to Eddie, who sits up to face them properly. 

“You know how you’re nerds?” He says, ruder than he meant but Ben and Mike both just stare back at him, amused smiles and laughs waiting on their lips.They can’t rebut the statement, they were reading (for _fun_ ) just before this conversation started after all. “I was just wondering if you’ve ever done any research into soulmates?” 

Ben looks shocked, which isn’t really a surprise. Out of all of their friends, Eddie and Richie are the ones who speak about soulmates the least, they never open conversations about it and certainly try to shut down what they can. A product of the underlying terror of being found out. 

“Yeah I guess so, I went through a phase where it was basically all I researched. Before I met Bev obviously.” Ben says, his round cheeks warming slightly when he mentions Bev, the way he always does when any of the Losers mention the romantic connection between the two of them. Eddie nods, flustered and itching in the palms. He considers shutting down the conversation now, joking about how cute that is and letting the subject draw flat, but now that answers are right at his fingertips he can’t just leave it. 

_He’ll never want you like that._

“Are soulmates ever platonic?” He blurts out. 

Mike’s eyes widen to the size of saucers and Ben blinks rapidly, taken aback by the question. Eddie sits and waits for an answer, so mortified at the fact he even opened this conversation that he feels like if he tries to do so much as speak he will descend into panic. As the silence drags he fumbles for his inhaler, taking a long puff and relaxing into the decompression of his lungs, cool medicated air loosening the tightness that had appeared there. 

“Yeah definitely,” Ben answers finally, with the exact answer Eddie was hoping he wouldn’t provide. Then he continues, “there’s a different colour string for platonic soulmates.” 

“Yellow,” Mike fills in just as Eddie opens his mouth to ask the question. He holds up his right hand and wiggles his pinky finger as if Eddie can see the string tied there. “Mine’s yellow,” he says. 

Ben turns to him, immediately intrigued. 

“Really?” His eyes are wide and brimming with excitement. “That’s so cool, have you met them yet?” 

Mike shakes his head, moving his fingers as though he’s spinning the string around it. “Nope, I don’t think they’re in Derry.” 

Eddie is listening to the conversation absently, mind preoccupied with thoughts about his and Richie’s string. Their _red_ string. He’s so relieved he’s swimming in it, he feels like he should be surprised by his relief, but that at the same time he’s entirely unsurprised by it. If he’s honest with himself, which he rarely is, he’s always known that he wants to be with Richie one day. 

“You’ll have to get out one day and find them then,” Eddie says, voice coming out blessedly normal. 

Mike smiles at him warmly, his face taking on that same wistful expression Stan gets when he talks about his soulmate. “Yeah, I guess I will.” 

“Is your string red or yellow Eddie?” Ben asks kindly, gesturing to Eddie’s hands where they are patting against his lap. 

Eddie stares at the red string looped around his finger, stretching along the floor, out of Ben’s house, to wherever Richie is at this moment. 

“It’s red,” he admits, toying with the bow tied around his finger. Ben nods, returning to his book with a shrug. “Then it’s a romantic connection,” he says casually, unknowing to just how incredible that fact is to Eddie. 

“You haven’t met her yet have you?” He asks when Eddie says nothing. 

Eddie stammers out a denial. Now that he has his answer he decides to end the conversation. The familiar fear of revealing too much creeping back into his chest. “What about you and Bev?” He grins as Ben almost rips a page out of his book with flusteredness. “Red string?” 

“Um yep, yeah,” Ben mumbles, running a hand along his cheeks to hide the flush there. “Red string.” 

The two of them return to their reading and Eddie settles back against the cold floorboards, inspecting his string. Not just his string, his and Richie’s _red_ string. No matter what the leper said to him, no matter what he and Richie decided at eight years old, they’re universe approved for a romantic connection. He frowns, remembering his mother, and his second grade teacher, their reactions to the idea of a red string between two boys. Universe approved maybe, but not Derry approved. 

~-~-~

Richie officially believes in the clown, he’s not sure how Stan could have confronted something like that and not believe in it. It doesn’t take a genius to know the creature leaping out of a haunted projector screen and trying to eat them was _real_. No level of imagination in the world could get Richie to fabricate something like that, no matter how messed up he is. 

It was like a thing out of his worst nightmares, the flickering of the projector light, the screams of his friends. He can barely remember details other than his hands grabbing for Eddie, always instinctively reaching for him in the face of danger, knowing if nothing else, he would protect him. 

“What the fuck is that?” He had screamed, his hands scrabbling at Eddie’s arm for grip. 

Eddie had screamed back, louder, like he was trying to outdo Richie’s panic as they faced what seemed to be their imminent deaths. Eddie’s voice was desperate and hoarse, loud from being yelled directly into Richie’s ear. “I don’t fucking know.” 

Mike kicked the projector over and it hit the ground with a loud crash that echoed in his ears. The yellow square of the light still illuminating the wall, lit up around Stan like a spotlight. His skin still crawls now at the memory, how it continued to flash photo after photo in a sequence, the clown growing closer and closer still. It should have stopped, there were no photo cards left in the machine, all spilled out across the floor. The silence was broken by their loud panting breaths, seven hearts thumping in terror. 

Flash. Darkness. 

Flash. Darkness. 

Flash. The clown was gone, Richie had held his breath, Eddie’s fingers on his shoulder so tight they were like a brand. 

Flash. The clown burst from the projector. IT’s growls ringing in Richie’s ears, echoing in the small space of the Denbrough’s garage. Their screams filled the rest of the room until there was no space left to breathe. They scrambled over each other, limbs in the way and feet tripping over nothing as the clown cornered them, cornered Bev. 

There was nothing but fear and panic and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears until Mike had thrown the garage door open. The room flooded with light and with it, the monster was gone. 

If he had never seen the clown again it would have been too soon, and yet here he is. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, following Bill into danger and potential death with only a second of hesitation. 

“I’m _missing_ ,” he gasps, breath coming out short and sharp, heart thundering against his chest. The poster seems deathly cold in his grasp, crumpling in his grip, his own face and name staring back at him. 

Missing.

Richie Tozier. 

Male, aged 13. 

Parents, Maggie and Wentworth Tozier. 

Soulmate, none. 

Leads, none. 

“It’s not r-r-real,” Bill assures him, trying to pull the paper from Richie’s steely grip. “It’s a t-trick Richie, it’s n-n-not real.” 

Richie shakes his head roughly, the paper fluttering harshly through the air as his hand shakes. He can’t look away from the poster, the description of him exactly as he is dressed now, from his grey canvas shoes to his t-shirt. 

“I’m going to go missing Bill, no one will _know_ ,” his words warped from fear, too breathless, gasping like he can’t get enough air into his lungs to speak properly. 

Another hand grips his arm, ripping the paper from his grip so roughly the corner tears away and stays in Richie’s tight palm. 

“I would know,” Eddie says, leaving no room for hesitation, furious eyes staring at Richie as though daring him to try and disagree. 

“It’s f-f-fake Richie. It’s what IT d-does,” Bill backs Eddie up, his finger tracing along the leads section. “We w-would know where you are.” 

“Fake,” Richie mumbles, still shaking like a leaf from head to toe. 

“It’s fake,” Eddie echoes, tapping at the line _Soulmates, none_ with a pointed look before throwing the paper roughly to the ground. “We would never let you go missing.” 

Richie manages a nod, following Bill’s lead as they make their way through the dilapidated house. His legs shaking with every step, as unstable as the crumbling walls around them. Every surface they walk past is coated with a layer of dust and grime, spiders sitting in the corners of the rooms, the floorboards groaning under their weight. 

It’s far too easy for IT to separate them. 

One moment Richie is standing beside Bill, Eddie’s footsteps creaking behind them, the next a door slams and Eddie is gone. Richie throws himself at the door, pulling at the stiff handle. 

“No no no.” His heart is lodged in his throat, thumping against his vocal chords. “Bill we have to get to him. Eddie! Eddie!” Richie screams, rattling at the doorknob and sobbing when it doesn’t budge. Bill shoulders the door, crashing into it, to no avail. Richie’s fingernails scratch helplessly at the edges of the frame. 

“Richie?” Eddie voice calls from behind him. Richie whips around, following the voice into another dark room. Bill takes no notice of him walking away, still slamming his shoulder against the door harshly as if he’ll be able to throw it open with pure force. 

“Eddie?” Richie’s footsteps creak loud in the silent room. 

“Eddie?” He cries out again when he doesn’t respond. 

The door slams shut behind him with a deafening crash. 

“No!” He shouts, the sound torn out of him. He can hear Bill crash into the door on the other side, calling his name, muffled and panicked. “Bill!” 

He’s alone. The room is as dusty and dirt-covered as the rest of the house. Richie can hear Eddie fussing about health codes and the dangers of inhaling too much dust in the back of his mind. He focuses on Eddie’s voice, what he would be saying if he was in here with Richie, grounding himself with it as he picks his way through the room. It’s filled with porcelain clowns, faces painted in their exaggerated expressions, some smiling, some sobbing as if frozen in desperate anguish, some staring angrily, directly at Richie. 

“Stupid clowns,” Richie mutters as he makes his way throught the crowd of them, scanning the walls for another exit. Their porcelain eyes seem to follow him through the room. “Oh hi Mrs K, didn’t see you there,” Richie jokes as he walks past a particularly grotesque doll, its entire body squashed down so it was no more than a round head and legs and heavy makeup shining in the light from the singular window. The teasing and joking, even with no one there to laugh, helps relax him. Slipping off the fear like a jacket in the heat, letting himself relax into the rhythm of improvising jokes. He keeps making fun of the different clown dolls as he walks, but just as he’s thinking he’s okay the coffin in the centre of the room groans open. 

The hinges squeal with rust and misuse, revealing a rotting interior with Richie’s missing poster taped against the inside roof. Written in red, dripping blood is a singular word. 

_Found_. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, slowly approaching the coffin, feet padding, as soft as possible against the floor to avoid disturbing anything. The room is thick with silence, every soft footstep is loud as a clap of thunder. His muscles tense in preparation for impact, heart thundering. Nothing happens. 

The thing in the coffin is shrouded in a blanket. He reaches out a hand despite himself, Eddie’s voice in his head screaming at his stupidity. _Why would you put your hand in the coffin don’t you know how dangerous that is! There’s a killer monster in this house Richard!_

He ignores it, pulling the blanket away with a sharp tug. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he gasps, reeling backwards when his own face greets him. Mouth stitched shut and eyes wide and hollow, dead. Maggots crawling out of the sunken holes of his cheeks. The smell is horrendous, decaying and rotten, and bile rises in Richie’s throat at even a hint of it. “God.” He dry retches, slamming the coffin shut, with a gasping terrified breath. He gets barely a second of reprieve before the coffin lid is crashing open again, a clown, _the_ clown, springing out like a bullet, landing on top of the coffin with a wide eyed smile. His eyes bore into Richie murderously, eagerly. 

“Beep beep Richie,” he hisses, throwing Richie’s best friends’ words in his face like an insult. Richie scrambles backwards to the door as it growls, lunging forward, shouting with arms outstretched to seize Richie. Its teeth sharp, bared like a tiger pouncing on its prey. The door slams into the centre of his back, crushing his shoulder blades together with a painful crunch. He scrabbles at the doorknob with sweaty shaking fingers, screaming his throat raw as the clown barrels towards him. Suddenly the door opens, Bill’s hands grabbing his shoulders and yanking him through and slamming it closed in the clown’s face. 

“We’ve g-got to get out of here,” Bill says, holding Richie’s elbow as if terrified letting go means they’ll be ripped apart again. 

“No shit,” Richie gasps. 

He lets Bill drag him out of the room, through another hallway Richie doesn’t remember being there, but at the same time couldn’t be sure. Every room in this house is distinctly different and yet so eerily similar he’s almost positive they’re constantly changing around them. A never ending labyrinth of terror. 

They stumble to a halt in front of three doors. 

_Not Scary At All. Scary. Very Scary._

Written on each door in dripping, oozing blood, running upwards instead of down. 

“I hate this fucking house,” Richie mutters, not expecting an answer but grateful when Bill makes a hum of agreement. 

“N-not scary at all right?” Bill asks. 

Richie blinks back at him, hoping his expression conveys just how stupid of a question that is. Something creaks behind them, like a footstep on the stairs. 

“Yep go go go.” Richie shoves at Bill’s shoulder until he flings open the door. 

They’re greeted with all encompassing darkness and a single light pulley system. Bill, ever the brave and fearless leader, reaches out without hesitation, tugging once on the cord so the light flicks on. Immediately they’re confronted with what might have once been Betty Ripsom’s torso, screaming her voice hoarse the second the light hits her. Crying out for them to save her. Richie matches her screams with just as much fervour, a clawing terror consuming him from the inside. He slams the door closed with a loud sob. 

“I’m not doing it anymore,” he gasps, heart pounding so loud in his throat that every breath cuts at the inside like a razor along gravel. He has to double over to heave a clean breath of air. “I’d rather just sit here and wait for the clown to come and kill me than go through that fucking door,” he says, pointing to the door with such ferocity that Bill is stunned into silence. The words ‘Not Scary At All’ torment him. _Not Scary my fucking ass_ , Richie thinks fiercely. 

“R-Richie we can’t just wait to d-die,” Bill says, tugging at Richie’s arm as he tries to sit on the floor, ready to succumb to his inevitable end. “I-it’s not real, just like the p-p-poster. Betty isn’t r-real.” 

“I hate to break it to you Billiam but she looked pretty damn real to me,” Richie mutters. “Stop tugging at me, I’m not going through that fucking-” A blood curdling scream cuts him off. 

Eddie. 

Richie rips his arm from Bill’s hold and flings the door open, exhaling in relief at the empty corridor that greets him. 

“Eddie?” he screams into the house. He runs towards the sound of Eddie’s terrified shouting using his string to ensure he’s headed in the right direction. He can hear Bill’s footfalls behind him but his only focus is Eddie. “Eddie! Where are you?” His voice is hoarse and desperate, so loud it bounces off the walls around them. 

He gets to the room first, throwing open the door and almost tripping Bill up with his sudden stop. The clown is there, not just there but crowded over Eddie and drooling, his mouth morphing from a twisted, greedy smile to an angry leer as he looks over his shoulder at the boys. 

“Eddie,” Richie gasps. His stomach twists and writhes with fear, seeing Eddie so vulnerable, his heart stops in his chest. A raw guttural anger is consuming him, furious that the clown would _dare_ lay a finger on Eddie. Richie’s blood burns at the idea of IT hurting Eddie. 

Eddie is shaking in the clown’s grip, it’s white glove secure around his throat, his face screwed up and tears streaming down his cheeks. 

The clown smiles, a slow menacing grin that brings the taste of bile to Richie’s mouth. 

“Is this not real enough for you Billy?” He asks, hand stroking at Eddie’s face slowly. “It’s real enough for Richie. Isn’t it Richie? Wouldn’t want me to hurt your little Eddie?” The clown’s fingers curl around Eddie’s throat tightly until Eddie whimpers in fear, gagging and sobbing. 

“Leave him alone,” Richie says, his voice betraying him, it’s rawness revealing how terrified he is. His stomach drops as the clown traces a finger along Eddie’s round cheek, squished in his hold, the touch predatory and territorial. 

IT sticks out a lip, blubbering. “It’s not real though Richie, not to Billy, I’m not real enough for him.” 

Eddie sobs loudly, hands shoving at the clown’s hold on him. Bill shakes his head, Richie can feel the tense lines of his muscles beside him. 

“It was real enough for _Georgie_ ,” IT leers. It surges forward with sharp razor teeth gaping open, laughing maniacally as Richie and Bill scream, smiling at their terror in delight, enjoying the sound of their terrified screams from their raw throats. Bill’s body curls in around Richie’s like a human shield. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the blow… but nothing comes. 

Instead, he opens his eyes to blood oozing through the air as if the gravity of the room has been removed. The blood a dripping trail from the clown’s concaved face, mangled from the spear Bev forced through IT’s skull. Richie watches, horrified, as a warped whine pierces the room from the monster’s mouth, a high pitched squeal that rings in Richie’s ears, one of its bloodshot eyes staring directly at him. 

“Get Eddie,” Richie rasps, still frozen. Bill’s hands push hard at his shoulder blades and spur him into action. 

He runs over to Eddie, still staring at the bleeding clown, his mouth open in horror. Richie collapses to the ground next to him, knees hitting the floor with a painful thud. 

“Eddie come on,” he urges, louder than he expected, the terror still pulsating in his ears. 

Eddie shakes his head, a raw scream escaping his throat, still staring across the room, not meeting Richie’s gaze. Richie follows Eddie’s line of sight back to the clown, its bones cracking and snapping as it stands up and swivels around to growl at them, spear still lodged through its head. 

IT staggers towards them, growling, savage with anger. IT’s eyes are bloodshot and murderous as they flick between each Loser, no longer entertained, like it hates them. Richie’s heart drops as IT stares at them, tongue lolling out of its mouth, drool dripping from its bloody lips. 

“Eddie look at me,” Richie hears himself say, grabbing at Eddie’s cheek and turning his head so they are looking into each other's eyes. “Look at me Eddie, it’s okay, Eddie look at me,” he repeats desperately, Eddie screaming bloody murder in his ear. 

He doesn’t know anything else, except that if they’re going to die in this moment, he doesn’t want the last thing Eddie sees to be that monster. If he is going to die, he wants Eddie’s eyes to be the last thing he sees. 

“Look at me,” Richie sobs, Eddie’s eyes snap to his, worried and wide with terror. 

The clown roars, laughing when they all lurch backwards away from it, terrified. Richie shakes, pressing his forehead to Eddie’s and squeezing his eyes shut. 

Instead of killing them, as Richie expected, IT snarls, and with a final haunting laugh, it leaves. Whirling around with a swipe to Ben’s belly, it staggers from the room like a drunkard. 

“We hurt it too much to stay,” Richie hears Bev whisper, but doesn’t pay it any mind. All his attention focused on Eddie who hasn’t stopped screaming. He’s clutching his arm at an odd angle, eyes screwed shut in pain. His arm is broken Richie realises, heart still beating a mile a minute, breaths coming out odd and hollow. He’s in pain, and with every piercing scream Richie can feel his heart shattering. 

“I’m going to snap your arm into place,” Richie says, filled with a desperate need to help. He looks right into Eddie’s eyes, who hadn’t looked away since Richie had held their foreheads together.

“Do _not_ fuckingtouch me,” Eddie shrieks, trying to scramble away from him. Richie just repeats what he’s going to do and takes Eddie’s arm, completing the motion as quickly as possible with a countdown that can barely be heard over his friends’ screams and warnings. Eddie howls in pain, loud enough that Richie is terrified the clown will come back. 

They run from the house, tripping over their bikes, cussing and shaking until they are streets away. Bill is at the front of the hoard of bikes, directing them all to Eddie’s house. Richie doesn’t realise where they are going until they have arrived. Eddie’s screams are still in his ears, the terrified way he had looked at him playing on a loop every time Richie blinks. He can still feel the clawing feeling in his chest, the knowledge and acceptance that in that moment, he was going to die. 

Still, even that feeling shrivels into guilt under the glare of Sonia Kaspbrak. 

She drives away, Eddie shaking in the passenger seat, tears still trickling in fat drops down his face. Richie can’t shake her voice though, _monsters_ , she’d called them. She called Bev dirty, she cut over Bill’s stuttering, but she had looked right at Richie when she called them monsters. 

“I saw the well,” Bill says, turning to them expectantly. “W-w-w-we know where it is, an-and next time we’ll be better prepared.” 

Richie’s voice comes out harsher than he means. “Please _God_ tell me you’re joking?” 

Bill looks back at him, eyebrows raised in shock. “Th-that’s where G-g- _fuck_ , where Georgie is.” 

“No Bill,” Stan says, drawing all of their attention with his sob. “You’re insane.” 

Bev stares at them, almost disappointedly. Usually it would tug at Richie’s heart to have someone look at him like that, always desperate to impress everybody, but with Sonia’s revolted expression still burning into the back of his eyelids he can’t find it in himself to shrink away from her. 

“No one else is going to do anything Stan,” she says. “It has to be us.” 

“Fucking _why_?” Richie asks. “Why does it have to be us? We’re kids, we don’t know what we’re fucking doing!” He gestures to Ben’s bloody stomach, for the second time that summer. “Ben’s bleeding outover here, not that _you_ seem to care.” 

Bev goes white, stepping protectively towards Ben. “Of course I care.” 

Bill cuts in before Richie can. “I-I know you’re scared, b-b-but if we’re together we can beat it. I believe we can.” 

Richie shakes his head roughly. He thinks of Eddie, separated from them, alone, the clown drooling over his face, his teeth poised to kill before Richie and Bill got there. What if they had been a second too late? His fingers stress at the red tie around his finger, the string unspooled and loose from Eddie being so far away. 

“Belief isn’t enough Bill.” Richie shakes his head roughly, stepping into Bill’s space. “Eddie was nearly killed!” he shouts.

Bill only just stops himself from flinching at the reminder and Richie feels a sick feeling of pleasure in knowing that at the least, somewhere under his skin, Bill feels guilty for what happened. 

“He’s okay though,” Bill says, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. 

“Is he?” Richie asks, throwing his hands up, his words snap out of him, harsh and pointed as knives. The anger that has been bubbling in him since that clown held Eddie tight in his grip finally exploding out of him like a bomb. “Is he _okay_ Bill? With his mother and a broken arm, yeah I’m sure Mrs K will be totally chill about it all!” 

Bill does wince at that, no one understands how terrible Eddie’s mother is like him, Stan and Richie do, they’ve seen it firsthand since they were so young they didn’t even realise it was wrong. 

“Any one of us could have died in there today,” Richie says darkly, looking directly into Bill’s wide blue eyes. “Face that facts Bill, Georgie is _dead_. Stop trying to get us killed too.” 

“Richie,” Stan warns softly. 

“T-t-take it back,” Bill says, spitting the words, like he hates Richie. His glare twists at Richie’s heart, this is one of his childhood best friends. He wants to shrink back, apologise, but Eddie’s terrified eyes are burnt into his memory. No matter what Bill says to him, that is the worst thing he will ever have to face. 

“I know it’s hard,” he says, trying to emphasise the understanding in his voice. Georgie was a little brother to all of them, he may not feel his loss as deeply Bill does, no one could, but he understands. Georgie was so young, so sweet, he used to beg Richie to do Voices for him, one high pitched wheezy Voice that would make him giggle until he was breathless. Richie’s not sure he can ever do that Voice again now. It’s that understanding that allowed them to follow Bill this far, to splash through sewerage and go into Neibolt house in the first place; but he’s gone too far now. “But you have to stop Bill, he’s gone, don’t die with him.” 

“Take it b-b-b-back,” he says again, stumbling so hard on the last word that Richie almost feels bad, almost. “We can st-still- we can still save him.” 

“He’s gone Bill! I nearly- we nearly lost Eddie today too, it’s not _worth_ it.” 

Bill shoves at him, hard. 

Hard enough to make him stagger back a few steps, almost knocking Stan over in the process. He hears someone yell at Bill to stop, or maybe they’re yelling at him, Richie wouldn’t know, the ringing in his ears is too loud. His blood pulsing loud and fast, the adrenaline from earlier immediately flooding his veins. 

He shoves back. 

“Bill!” Someone, Bev maybe, exclaims. 

Which is all the warning Richie gets before Bill’s fist slams into his face, hard. It snaps his head to the side, colliding with the corner of his glasses and crushing them hard into his temple. The force behind the right hook enough to send him toppling to the ground, his knees scraping along the asphalt of the road with the taste of blood in his mouth. 

Richie chokes back a sob, pushing it down and squeezing his eyes shut. His head throbs painfully as Stan’s soft hands seize him and help him to his feet. When he opens his eyes Stan’s worried hazel ones are all he sees, scanning his face to judge the damage. 

Richie looks past him to Bill’s angry face. 

“Fuck you,” Richie spits, the words coming out tight with barely contained tears. He can’t read the expression on Bill’s face, and frankly doesn’t care enough to try. Instead he follows Stan gratefully as he takes him by the wrist, leading him away and towards their bikes. 

~-~-~

“Goodnight Eddie-bear,” Sonia says coldly, sitting down in her usual chair in front of the television. It’s been the same every night for the last week since Eddie came home with his broken arm. After spending the rest of the afternoon and evening being scanned and prodded he had been able to return home with an arm cast and a scolding from the doctor for being reckless. It shouldn’t have taken as long as it did, but every time Eddie thought he could go home he would hear Sonia say something like “he’s allergic to so and so could he have…” and the next thing he knew he was being whisked into another room for more tests. 

Since that day he hasn’t been allowed to see his friends at all, and he misses them like a lost limb. Every day is filled with the four walls of his bedroom, reading and then rereading the same comics until he can quote them. If he is feeling particularly masochistic he sometimes will sit with Sonia and watch reality television with her. That’s rarely worth it, as extended time with Eddie and his broken arm reminds Sonia of ‘those kids’ and what they had done to her ‘delicate boy’ and he ends up on the receiving end of another lecture. 

Dinner with her is mandatory as per usual, and they sit in silence for the entirety of the meal. Their chewing noises are loud and crockery knocks together with clattering sounds, making dinner a consistently uncomfortable affair. Finally the night ends with a farewell from Sonia and a required kiss on the cheek, and Eddie is free to go. 

He climbs the stairs two at a time, desperate to be as far away from her as quickly as possible. _Stan’s bar mitzvah was today_ he remembers bitterly. His mother never would have taken him, far too many deep rooted beliefs to let Eddie within an arm's reach of the synagogue, but still it would have been nice to have met his friend afterwards. To congratulate him on achieving his manhood, whatever that means. 

There hasn’t been a second of this lonely week that he hasn’t thought of his friends. Considering what they could be doing without him, whether they’re hanging out as a group or separately. Are they missing him as desperately as he’s missing them? Do they even notice he isn’t there? 

He misses all of them. Bev’s smile, almost as bright as her hair, the way her laugh rings out when Richie finally manages to crack her. Ben’s sheepish glances and encyclopedic knowledge of Derry, the way Mike immediately backs that knowledge up with facts of his own; the two easily firing back and forth and leaving the rest of them to watch the ensuing mental tennis. Eddie misses watching Stan roll his eyes to cover his amusement at Richie’s antics, and the way he knows exactly when to lay a hand on Eddie’s shoulder to ground him. He desperately wants to hear the squeak of Bill’s bike, the way he loses the stiff shell that has crept around him since Georgie’s death as they ride, his carefree smile coming back just for a little while. 

Most of all, he misses Richie. 

He starfishes on the bed, plucking at the red string on his finger, pulling on it until the fibre goes lax in his hand and he can hold it to his chest. It’s boring and lonely without him, time stretching on too long and no one to fill the silent air with mindless chatter. 

He misses Richie’s terrible Voices and outright inappropriate jokes. Eddie hasn’t laughed the whole week. He’ll never admit it to Richie’s face, lest he get a bigger head than the overinflated balloon already balancing precariously on his shoulders, but no one can make him laugh like Richie can. He’s the funniest person Eddie knows. Even terrified and positive that he, Bill and Richie were walking to their dooms, Richie had been cracking jokes, and Eddie had been working hard not to break into laughter in response. 

He plucks at the string again, twirling it between his fingers so it was looped in and around every one then pulling it out again and repeating the process. 

Eddie misses everyone, sure, but he misses Richie like missing a part of himself. They haven’t been apart this long since they met at six years old, his mother never truly approving of their friendship, but also never willing to step in and force them apart lest she risk upsetting Eddie. They’ve always been so careful to keep Richie on her good side, and even if he pushed just that little bit too far Bill and Stan were there to soften the blow and after a couple of days everything would be fine again. This time is different, with Bill and Stan involved in Eddie getting a serious injury, there’s no safety net to fall back on, no one to reassure Sonia Kaspbrak that he’s okay. 

A sharp tug on the string pulls him out of his thoughts. 

Eddie glances at it confused, typically when he and Richie are far away they can feel small touches, little reverberations as the other fiddles with the string but nothing more. This kind of tug means Richie is close enough to give it a proper pull. He sits up as it tugs again, eyes following the thread out his window, stretched along the sill and angling towards the ground. Another sharp pull. 

He carefully slides the window open, jiggling it slightly to avoid the squeak at the very top so Sonia wouldn’t hear it. 

“Richie?” He whispers into the night, squinting through the darkness to try and find his friend. A flurry of movement catches his eye just below and he has half a second to fear that IT is below him, tricking him with the one thing he wants more than anything, before Richie is whispering back. 

“Eds! Can I come up?” 

Even though Eddie is sure Richie can’t make out his expression in the backlight of his bedroom he stares incredulously down at him nonetheless. 

“How the fuck do you plan to get up here?” He asks, his voice as loud as whispering will allow, gesturing largely to accentuate the fact that Eddie is very much on the second floor of his house. 

Richie doesn’t respond, his actions speaking loudly enough. 

“Richard don’t you fucking dare,” Eddie hisses as Richie starts to shimmy his way up the thick oak tree beside his window, heaving himself upwards using the lower branches. 

Richie beams wolfishly at him once he’s within Eddie’s vision, the sight of it sending a warm thrill through Eddie despite himself. “Relax Spaghetti, I got this,” he assures Eddie, raising his hand from his grip on the tree to wave it flippantly. 

“Fucking hold on or so help me I will strangle you before you can set foot in this room,” Eddie threatens, stepping out of the way so Richie can stretch from the thick branch to the windowsill and slide over it. 

Eddie begins chewing Richie out from the second his feet hit the carpet of Eddie’s bedroom. 

“You are a reckless _idiot_. Do you have any idea how dangerous climbing a tree this tall is? Let alone in the dark when you can’t see potential broken branches and not to mention the amount of splinters you could get from not being able to know where to put your hands.” Eddie scolds, slicing his hands through the air in frustration, determinedly ignoring the growing smile on Richie’s face the longer he talks. 

“What the fuck was I meant to do if you fell you idiot? I would have to watch you just drop to the ground and then Mom would find out you came here because I couldn’t just leave you with a fractured bone because Lord knows you wouldn’t give it any medical attention.” Eddie huffs crossing his arms tight across his chest. 

Richie opens his mouth to speak, still smiling with that specific smile reserved just for Eddie, a little warmer than usual, a little brighter. Eddie cuts him off with a finger held in his face, warning him not to say a _fucking_ word. He takes a moment to drink in Richie’s appearance, a parched man tasting water for the first time in what feels like months. He’s softened at the edges, black curls a birds nest atop his head from running his hands through them. A red pair of plaid pyjama pants stretch oversized to the floor, a ratty t-shirt completing the combination. 

“Are you wearing _pyjamas_?” Eddie asks incredulously, not giving Richie a second to respond before launching into his second tirade. “You rode over here in pyjama pants that don’t even fit you properly, in the _dark_ , in a town where we know for a fact that an evil clown who likes to eat children lives?” 

Richie shrugs making a dismissive noise, Eddie gapes at him. 

“Richie this is serious you could have died!” A cold hand grips at his heart, just at the idea of it. 

Richie shrugs again, opening his arms in an invitation for Eddie to step into. 

“I just missed you Eds,” he says simply. “It was worth it.”

Eddie hesitates, heart stuttering against his chest. “Not my name,” he grunts. He steps into Richie’s arms, his muscles sagging with relief as they enclose him in the hug, breathing in the familiar smell of him, a citrus shampoo and something warm and inherently Richie that Eddie has never been able to place. 

“I missed you too,” Eddie admits into the worn fabric of Richie’s t-shirt sleeve. 

They stand like that for a long while, Eddie’s arms wrapped around Richie’s midriff and Richie’s around his shoulders, faces pressed into hair and t-shirts, rocking back and forth with every slow exhale. Despite the frustration and fear surging through Eddie at the idea of Richie riding here alone - in the _dark_ \- he can’t deny that the tension is slowly flooding out of him with every long exhale of Richie’s that rustles through his hair. 

“C’mon,” he says, knocking their shoulders together and tugging Richie towards the bed. They scramble in, scrawny limbs knocking together as they struggle to get comfortable, eventually settling against the pillows at the head of Eddie’s bed, Richie curled on his back and Eddie tucked into his side, head pillowed on his sternum. 

“What’ve you been doing this last week?” Richie asks. 

Eddie grumbles. “Literally nothing. Spending a lot of time with my mother or in my room.” 

Richie sighs wistfully, a fake and mocking noise. “Wish I could trade with you, I could do _so much_ with Mrs K in a week,” Richie rolls his shoulders in a mockery of seduction, breaking into chortles as Eddie slaps at his shoulder. 

“Gross!”

Richie’s chest shakes with amusement at his own terrible joke, the movement a calming jostling motion. 

“What about you? How are the other Losers?” Eddie asks, once Richie is calm. 

Richie’s breath exhales in a whoosh. “Wouldn’t really know, aside from Stan, he’s good.” 

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks. 

Richie shrugs, Eddie feeling the motion rather than seeing it as his head rises and falls with Richie’s shoulders. “We haven’t been hanging out, Bill and I had a fight,” he explains. 

“What happened,” Eddie asks worriedly. Bill and Richie don’t always see eye to eye but usually they’re accommodating to each other, understanding when to leave space and when it’s alright to push. 

Richie sighs heavily. “After you left, Bill was talking crazy, about how _next time_ when we go back to Neibolt we’ll be better prepared and shit,” Richie spits the words ‘next time’ venomously. “I pushed it a little far, but you could have- we could have been killed,” Richie stumbles to correct himself, Eddie decides not to mention the slip. “Nothing’s worth risking that.” 

Eddie frowns, propping himself up a little so he can see Richie better. “Pushed a little too far how?” 

Richie at least has the sense to look sheepish at the question, turning his head to the side so Eddie can’t see his expression. “I told him that Georgie’s dead-” Eddie inhales sharply “-and he needs to stop trying to get us all killed too.” 

Eddie prods at Richie’s cheek until he’s irritated enough to turn his head and make eye contact again. “I don’t think you’re wrong, definitely not how you should have said it, but you weren’t wrong. He needs to hear it.” 

Richie makes a humming noise, looking up at the ceiling as he says, “Bill didn’t appreciate it, gave me a nice shiner.” 

“He _what_?” Eddie growls, voice dripping with more malice than he expects, it must shock Richie as much as it shocks him because his eyes snap down from the ceiling. 

Now that Eddie is looking closely he can see the yellow discolouration around Richie’s left eye, where the frame of his glasses would have hit his temple. Richie shuffles uncomfortably under Eddie’s gaze. “I gotta hand it to Billy boy, he’s got a mean right hook.” 

“He shouldn’t have done that,” Eddie says seriously, frowning again when Richie tries to duck his head and avoid the conversation. “I’m serious, Rich. Even if what you said was a dick move.” He stares at Richie pointedly, pleased when he looks appropriately abashed. “He still shouldn’t have done that.” 

Richie makes a low noise of what could be agreement so Eddie drops the subject, laying his head back against Richie’s steady comforting heartbeat. 

“So what have you been doing then?” He asks, offering Richie an out from the conversation which he takes appreciatively. 

“Mostly hanging out with Stan, or at the arcade,” Richie says, carding his fingers through Eddie’s hair. “His bar mitzvah was surprisingly awesome, he was a total badass.” 

Eddie splutters an incredulous laugh, from everything Stan had told him about the upcoming bar mitzvah, it being ‘awesome’ or ‘badass’ didn’t fit. 

“What? How?” He asks, smiling as Richie launches into the tale of Stan’s speech. 

~-~-~

Richie collapses onto a bench in the Memorial Park, his heart aching with exhausted sadness, tears stinging his eyes. It’s stupid, he should have known better. This is the exact reason he doesn’t branch out from the Losers, it never goes well. He feels betrayal clot in his veins, a resigned understanding that true friendship outside the Losers just wasn’t possible for him. It had just seemed so nice, so different. 

Sure, maybe he’d been craving a friendly interaction since all his friends were off limits. Stan was grounded on account of his bar mitzvah, he was too nervous to consider contacting Bev, Ben or Mike, Bill was an asshat and Eddie was still on house arrest. He was lonely, sue him, the phantom pain of Bill’s fist on his face still throbbing, he needed a friend. 

Of course that ‘friend’ turns out to be Bowers’ cousin, just his luck. He had just acted so welcoming, smiling and laughing at Richie’s jokes in a way most people didn’t. Slamming the buttons of Streetfighter and giving in with a sigh and grin when Richie won game after game. It was nice to settle into normalcy for a couple of minutes, even if it made him miss the Losers fiercely. He reminded Richie so much of his friends, how easily they bounced off each other. Which only made him shunning Richie all the more painful. 

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, slurs that are so familiar they might as well be his name, but this one stung. 

_“I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”_

That’s what Connor had said, his nose screwed up in disgust, like Richie was dirt, revolting. It was different because Richie had expected different, had hoped for a new friend, someone to fill the void that the Losers had left in their wake. 

He shoves his face into his hands, swallowing back sobs that threaten to escape, glasses pushed into his hair. He can still hear Bowers screaming at him as he ran out of the arcade, his shouts playing on loop in Richie’s mind. He takes slow heaving breaths, willing the emotions away and back into their appropriate places. 

“Oh Richie,” a voice sneers, dripping with contempt. Richie snaps to attention, looking up at the Paul Bunyan statue. Sitting on his wide shoulder is the clown, IT, grinning down at him with those too wide lips and pronounced buck teeth, holding a huge swarm of balloons in IT’s white gloved fist. “Poor wittle Richie, the naughty boy. You shouldn’t be looking at other boys like that Richie. Maybe then they wouldn’t chase you away.” 

Richie shakes his head, “I-I wasn’t I don’t even-” 

The clown blubbers exaggeratedly, sticking his blood red lip out and whining in a high pitched squeal. “No no! No I wasn’t!” He imitates Richie coldly. “Not Connor, no, you weren’t looking at _Connor_ were you Richie?” 

Richie’s stomach drops to his feet, blood running cold and dripping in icy chunks down each vertebrae in his spine. He shakes his head again, opening his mouth to speak but instead of words a broken gasping sound claws out.

The clown doesn’t relent. “Nothing to say? It’s because you know I’m right,” IT sing-songs, smile curling maliciously. Richie’s stomach churns, skin crawling as the clown’s yellow eyes bore into his soul. 

“I’m so lonely Richie. You know how that feels don’t you? No one talks to me, no one wants me around,” the clown says, face twisted like he’s crying but no tears stain his face. “You’ll talk to me won’t you? I know you understand what it’s like to not be wanted.” He says, as if on the verge of begging. “But not about soulmates no, wouldn’t want anyone to know what you’re hiding.” 

Richie’s breath catches, bile rising in his throat as he wills his voice to return, words catching in the dry ashy texture of his mouth. 

“That’s right Richie. I know your secret, your dirty little secret,” the clown sings, using the crowd of balloons to float down to the ground so he and Richie are at eye level. “I know your secret, your _dirty_ little secret,” IT hisses, words slicing into Richie, a cold sharp hand to his cheek that nothing from Bowers could ever produce. 

“Should I tell them Richie? I could tell them all. Connor, your parents, your _friends_ ,” The clown mocks. Blind terror surged through him, he can picture his friends’ horrified faces in his mind’s eye, clear as day. “What about _him_? Should I tell him? Bet little Eddie would like to know the truth, he’d want to know how much you _want_ him.” 

Richie staggers backwards, words finally clawing their way out. 

“No.”

The clown pouts, eyes wide and mockingly innocent. “No?” IT asks. “No, then he wouldn’t let you touch him would he Richie? Wouldn’t let your dirty hands anywhere near him.” 

His heart lurches, unable to force away images of Eddie flinching away from his touch, always avoidant of sickness. 

The clown steps closer and closer, teeth growing sharp and predatory as he approaches, mouth still stretched in a cruel smile. Richie’s whole body quakes and full body shivers wrack through him. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the clown away, trusting that if he wills hard enough he can survive this. 

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real,” he hisses, teeth clenched and fists tightly balled. Every muscle in his body is bunched tightly, terror gripping at him. His heart thundering a rampant beat against his shaking rib cage, the beating loud and consuming in Richie’s ears as he stands perfectly still. 

When he opens his eyes again the clown is gone, only a single popped blood red balloon sitting in its wake. 

Richie’s knees go weak and he collapses to the ground, shuddering with sobs, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“It’s not real,” he whispers to nobody, voice cracking around the words and knowing deep down in his heart, every threat the clown had made was very much real. 

~-~-~

The walk from his house to Keene’s Pharmacy and back has been Eddie’s only source of freedom for the last three weeks. He spends the entire time hoping that he’ll bump into one of the Losers, that Richie will be walking back from the arcade, that Bev will be in the pharmacy buying her own goods, or sneaking a pack of cigarettes when Keene wasn’t looking, but so far no such luck. 

Today is bright and sunny, a relief in the face of the dark and claustrophobic walls of his house, the curtains permanently closed so his mother doesn't have to squint to see the daytime reality television. The sun warming his skin, the short walk twice a week enough to leave his skin freckled and lightly tanned. 

He always tries his best to stretch the walk as long as possible, just within the borders of what his mother deems acceptable. Just enough so she won't assume he is ducking off to spend time with his friends, but as long as he can achieve outside the congested environment of his home. 

Mr Keene gives Eddie that odd smile of his, always somewhere toeing the line of sympathetic, pitying and gleeful, as he walks in. 

Eddie puts his empty pill container on the bench top, smiling politely. 

“Could I get a refill of my medication please?” He asks, doing his best not to shrivel under the contemplative stare of the old man. 

Mr Keene folds his hands slowly, his eyes squinted and thoughtful as he looks Eddie up and down, Eddie can almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he makes a decision about something, but what? Eddie doesn’t know. 

“You know Eddie, I’m worried I’ve hurt you,” he says finally, the words so unexpected Eddie has to smother the urge to flinch. “I think this has gone on long enough,” he continues as Eddie does nothing but stare back at him. Mr Keene reaches forward and pushes the empty pill bottle back towards Eddie. 

“What’s gone on long enough?” Eddie asks. Then remembering his manners tacks on a, “Sir.” 

Mr Keene frowns as Eddie tries to hand the bottle to him. “Do you know what a placebo is, Eddie?” He asks kindly. When Eddie shakes his head no, he begins to explain. “It’s a type of medicine that doesn’t actually contain any medicine at all, it’s for your head. Placebos are used for people who think they are sick, to make them feel better, does that make sense?” 

Eddie nods slowly, it does make sense, he thinks he might have heard about placebos in science class before. He still doesn’t understand what that has to do with him, and why Mr Keene won’t just take the medicine bottle and refill it. 

“This medicine,” Keene reaches forward and taps a finger to the orange bottle in Eddie’s grip, “it’s all placebos. Medicine for your head.” 

“No.” Eddie shakes his head roughly, trying to push the bottle into Mr Keene’s hands yet again, foolishly believing this time he will take it. “I need my medicine, my mom said. She- I’m sick.” 

Keene’s thin eyebrows furrow slowly. “Are you sure you’re sick Eddie?” He asks, speaking slowly like Eddie is a spooked animal ready to flee, he feels a little that way. “What has she told you your ailment is?” 

Eddie opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn’t know. 

“Have you ever done something you shouldn’t do? Wondered why you didn’t have a reaction?” Mr Keene pries. His words prickle at the back of Eddie’s neck, making his skin crawl. 

He has. He’s rolled on the grass and came back home without a single rash. He’s eaten stir fry with the Toziers and crunched down on whole cashews without a problem. He has run the entire way home from a leper with the intent to kill him, and made it far past the point his asthma should have left him incapable of going further. He has wondered how that was possible. 

“I need my medicine,” Eddie repeats, ignoring the way his voice tremors on the last word like even he doesn’t believe it. 

“No you don’t, Eddie.” 

Eddie’s breaths are coming short and ragged. Puffs of air that chip at his skin and fizzle out before they can reach his lungs, like he’s just coming short of taking clean air in. His fingers scratch at the zipper of his fanny pack, nails getting caught in the teeth before he manages to pull the zip open and messily press his inhaler to his lips. 

He takes a deep long puff, the medicine cool as it hits his lungs, his breaths coming out cleaner and full. He tries to ignore the way Mr Keene looks down sadly at his hands and waits for Eddie to finish, the shiny skin of his bald patch evident from the harsh artificial lighting of the pharmacy. 

“It’s not medicine Eddie,” Keene reiterates, holding out his hand for Eddie’s inhaler, palm up and patient. Eddie stares at the hand, the health concerns an immediate pressing weight in the back of his mind. Wondering how long it has been since he washed his hands, do pharmacists have to wash their hands regularly? If so, how regularly? Mr Keene’s hand is wrinkled and spotted in places, he could have any variety of bacteria and illness concealed in the wrinkles of his palm. Eddie swallows the concerns down and places the inhaler in his hold. 

He watches, fascinated and horrified as Mr Keene unscrews the canister from his inhaler and shows Eddie the label. 

“This should say HydrOx,” Keene explains, pointing to the H20 label so Eddie can clearly see it. “It’s water, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t help you, it does. Just means that your asthma isn’t in here.” Keene leans across the counter to tap on Eddie’s rib cage, his lungs. “It’s in here.” He taps his own head and moves back to his own side of the counter. 

With that he lets the conversation end, taking the pill container from Eddie and filling it with sugar pills despite what he told Eddie, continuing with their usual medicine transaction as if nothing has changed. The only difference is when Eddie leaves, rather than his usual “goodbye”, Mr Keene calls after Eddie. 

“Look after yourself Eddie. Think about what I told you.” 

Eddie walks home without registering a single step of the journey, eyes glazed and staring forward. 

“Eddie-bear? Is that you?” His mother calls out from the sofa, he ignores her and hurries from the door straight up the stairs. “Eddie?” Sonia yells after him. 

“Just going upstairs Mommy,” He says over his shoulder, slamming his bedroom door behind him to muffle the questions following him. 

He lets the fight drain out of his body as soon as he is safely within his bedroom. Body slumping against the back of his bedroom door and head knocking backwards as he drags down until he is seated on the rough carpet. He unclasps his hand from the medicine bottle still gripped tightly in his hold, angry pink indends cutting into the smooth skin of his palm from his tight grip the entire way home. 

The fact that he is sick is one thing about his life he has never questioned. Why should he? There’s no clear reason for his mother to lie to him, no reason to think anything differently. Of course, there have been moments where Eddie has thought it odd he didn’t react as expected, but never enough to make him consider it was all a lie. 

What else of what his mother tells him is a lie? 

He thinks of Richie, his stupidly large smile, his dumb hawaiian print shirts, the red cord that connects the two of them. Is having a boy soulmate really so wrong?

Nothing changes for four days. After the initial shock of Keene’s reveal Eddie returns to normalcy, trying to muster up the courage to say something to his mother and failing every time. He takes his medication in the morning, night, and every time his watch beeps, and hates himself a little bit more each time he does it. The sugar pills heavy in his palm, scratching at his throat as he downs them with a mouthful of water. 

It’s Bill’s phone call that spurs him into action. 

“Hello?” Eddie says casually, pretending he hadn’t run for the phone praying for it to be a Loser contacting him. 

“E-Eddie,” Bill’s voice knocks the wind out of him. God Eddie’s missed them all so much. “IT got B-Beverly. W-w-w-we have to help her.” Eddie’s chest seizes. 

He nods even though Bill can’t see him. “I’ll meet you there.” He’s proud of how steady his voice is. He ignores Stan in the background, muffled through the line of the phone, asking Bill, “Can he get away from his mother?” 

The phone disconnects with a click as Eddie slams it down, eyes fixed straight ahead as he considers when he needs to do. What he’s about to do. 

His mother intercepts his path on the way out, her expression dark and dangerous like nothing Eddie has ever seen in her before. 

“Where do you think you’re off to?” She asks, tone sickly sweet as though that will fool Eddie. It might have, before. 

He takes a deep shuddering breath, staring into the maw of the beast. “Out, with my friends.” 

Sonia shakes her head, a small motion but Eddie has to plant himself firmly to keep from flinching away. “You can’t go, you have to stay here, with _me_.” 

She reaches for Eddie’s face, holding his cheek in a way that would be tender, if not for the curl of her fingers like she’s trying to get a hold on him. “You’re still getting over your sickness, it’s not good for you to be around those kids, Eddie-bear.” 

Eddie steps backwards out of her hold, legs like jelly beneath him. 

“My sickness ma?” His voice wavers. “What sickness? What’s wrong with me?” 

His mother falters, he can see it in the way her expression seems to flicker, eyebrows crinkling inwards. “Your sickness, you’re delicate Eddie,” she says seriously. 

“No I’m not,” Eddie’s voice hardens, he takes another backwards step away from her. “I’m not sick ma, I’m not delicate, and I need to help my friends.” 

“You need to stay here. Where I can protect you.” 

Eddie scoffs, heart thumping painfully against his ribcage as Sonia’s eyes darken. “Protect me? Like you’ve been protecting me with these?” He unzips his fanny pack, holding up the medicine container full of sugar pills like a trophy of war. “I know they’re bullshit Ma!” His voice explodes out of him, the anger that’s been brewing since his conversation with Keene finally finding its outlet. He lifts the bottle into the air and hurls it to the ground, something tight in his chest releasing with the sound of them flying across the floor, skittering against the wooden boards. 

Sonia watches as they hit the ground, her eyes downturned, before they flick back up to look at Eddie. The way she looks at Eddie is more terrifying than any creature IT could ever torment Eddie with, any monster. Her eyes make his blood run cold. Fear pulses through him but he forces himself to stand straighter, to not shrink away. 

“You’re not leaving me, Eddie,” she says through gritted teeth, a hand reaching out as though intending to grab Eddie. He ducks away from it, side stepping so he’s closer to the door. “I’m just protecting you sweetheart.” 

“By lying to me?” Eddie asks, incredulity creeping into his tone. “That’s not protecting me Ma, that’s controlling me. My _friends_ were trying to protect me, and you’ve kept me away from them.” 

He dashes to the door, throwing it open before she can get a hold on him, ducking away from her grabbing hands. He runs, grabbing his bike and launching himself onto it as quickly as possible. His mother’s screams follow him down the street. He clenches his teeth and ignores them. Heading to Neibolt without a glance over his shoulder. 

Eddie is almost astounded by how quickly everything goes wrong, from the moment they enter the decrepit building. Everything had seemed fine, they’d gotten into the well without a problem, Stan was a little hesitant but otherwise alright. The thick rope they’d climbed down had left Eddie’s palms red raw from gripping on so tightly, terrified of the seemingly bottomless drop. Richie is checking over them now, in a small tunnel off the side of the well, his fingertips light and delicate in a way Richie usually never is as they skate over the chafed skin of Eddie’s palms. 

A scream from Mike breaks them out of their patient waiting. 

“M-Mike?” Bill shouts up the well. Richie pokes his head out of the hole, joining in shouting for Mike, he leans out just far enough that Eddie steadies a hand on the back of his shirt, just in case he were to slip. 

“Bowers,” Richie says suddenly, Eddie tries to peer round him and manages to catch a glimpse of Bowers’ blood smattered face before he’s grabbing the rope and hauling it out of their reach. 

Eddie holds his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the sound of Mike shouting and struggling against Bowers’ attacks echoes down into the well, the Losers helpless, stuck below without a rope. There’s a crash and someone yelps in pain. It has to be Mike, but there’s a part of Eddie hoping to all hell that he’s wrong. 

“Holy shit!” Richie shouts as Bowers’ body suddenly plummets down in front of them, knocking against the walls of the well until he reaches the bottom with a sickening crash.

“Mike!” Eddie shouts, so high pitched and terrified even to his own ears that it’s no more than a screech. 

Mike’s head peeks over the edge, his eyes heavy and solemn but otherwise completely unharmed. “I’m okay.” 

The bad luck only continues when they realise at some point while waiting for Mike, Stan had wandered off. 

“Stanley!” Eddie shouts, as they run through the sewers searching for him. Their shouts bounce off the walls, Stan’s name echoing around them loud and reverberating. Eddie’s heart is beating in his throat, and Richie looks manic with fear, eyes wild and crazed as they run through the tunnels in pursuit of Stan. 

They round a corner and Stan’s torch comes in view, lying on the ground and pointed at a dripping pile wall, oozing with sewerage and dirty water. Eddie dashes over to the torch, picking it up and a dark figure catches his eye. 

“Stan?” he turns and the torch illuminates a monster hunched over Stan, lips and teeth attached to the sides of his face and dug in. Blood drips down Stan’s cheeks, soaking his ears and neck with sticky redl. 

“What the fuck is that?” Richie rasps.

The thing looks up at them, a column of teeth still firmly attached to Stan’s face. Now that the creature is head on he can recognise it’s the woman that Stan had spoken about, but, woman seems like a stretch of a description. She is grotesque, face long and stretched and eyes shrunken and white, set too deeply into her sickly grey skin. Her sharp teeth drip with blood as she detaches from Stan’s face, leaving him shuddering on the floor, eyes fixed at the ceiling and unmoving. 

The Losers stay completely still, whimpering and crying out in fear as she backs away with a hungry smile, unmoving until she is completely out of sight. 

“Stan!” They scream, all dropping to their knees beside their friend. The effect is like setting off a bomb in the tunnels, Stan jerks out of his trance with a scream, torn at the end in a painful sounding sob. He scrambles away from them with heaving wails, his chest shuddering as he screams. 

“Stan no! Stanley!” Eddie is shouting, coming up beside Stan’s shoulder and trying to reassure him as tears stream down his face, blending with the blood in messy streaks. 

“You left me!” Stan screams at them, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear water from his ears. 

“No Stan, I’m sorry, we’re sorry, we didn’t mean to,” Eddie promises wildly, the words spilling out of him almost unconsciously. Each of them put a hand on Stan, Eddie holding his shoulder, Richie’s fingers wrapped gently around his ankle, Mike touching his knee, Ben at Stan’s other shoulder and Bill at his feet, a circle of protection as he cries. 

“You’re not my friends, you made me come down here,” Stan is still gasping, hyperventilating, his hands are clenched so tightly into his shirt that Eddie is worried he’s going to draw blood. 

“Stan, I’m sorry, Stan!” Eddie keeps repeating, rubbing reassuring circles into Stan’s shoulder as he slowly comes down from his panic attack. With a deep shuddering gasp Stan drops his head forward and sideways, on to Eddie’s shoulder. 

“I was so scared,” he whimpers, curling in on himself. They all tuck around him, a tangle of arms and legs, cocooning Stan and shielding him from the sewers. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and focuses everything he has on keeping Stan feeling safe, rather than the itching terror at the back of his mind and the sting of tears at the knowledge they could have lost one of his closest friends. 

He hears the splash of someone running and his head whips up before he even registers what is happening. His eyes skim over each of the Losers, Ben, Mike, Richie, Stan… no Bill. 

“Bill!” He shouts after Bill’s retreating footsteps, running after something. 

The other Losers take to their feet after him, Richie immediately at his side, the way he always is. In his hurry Eddie didn’t notice the others split off from them, jerking to a stop when he realises that his and Richie’s footfalls are the only ones he can hear. 

“Rich? Where are the others?” He asks, voice shaking around his fear. Richie’s eyes meet his in similar terror, glancing around desperately like the others will just step out of the shadows. “Mike! Ben!” Richie calls, grabbing Eddie’s elbow and pulling him along. 

They traipse through the disgusting sewer tunnels hoping that they might happen to bump into another one of the Losers.

“Bill!” Eddie shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth and wincing when the noise echoes back at him loudly. “Stan!” 

“Help up, help us,” a grating, mocking voice rings through the sewer. “Call out to your friends Eddie, wouldn’t want to be alone with the dirty boy for too long,” the clown hisses, stepping in front of them. Richie flinches away from the words, stumbling backwards as if the clown struck him across the face. 

Eddie is torn between terror and furiosity. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The clown ignores him, honed in on Richie with a manic grin. 

“You know what I’m saying don’t you, Richie?” IT asks with a grin, smile too wide and teeth too sharp. “Should I tell him? Tell him why you shouldn’t be alone with him?” 

Eddie watches, horrified, as Richie curls away from the words; hunching under the weight of them, like he believes it, shaking his head roughly. 

The clown laughs wildly and the sound grates down Eddie’s spine like nails on a chalkboard. “I know your secret, your dirty little secret,” he sings, swinging his arms in a mock joviality as he walks closer and closer to them. 

“Fuck off,” Eddie hisses. The clown stumbles for a second, wide eyed before leering over Eddie, face twisting and melting into the wicked smile of the leper. 

“You’re afraid Eddie-bear,” the leper slurs, his mother’s nickname sends Eddie reeling back. “What if Mommy dearest knew about him?” The leper cocks his head towards Richie, smiling when Eddie whimpers. He imagines his mother’s fist, tight around his arm, keeping him under her control. “What if she knew about the dirty little boy?” 

Richie makes a broken noise, shrinking away from the words; and Eddie? Eddie sees red. 

“He’s _not_ dirty,” Eddie growls, forcing himself to straighten his back, to stare angrily into the eyes of the nightmare, shifting back into a clown. He sees another flicker in the clown’s expression, a whisper of pain, gone as quickly as it arrived. Eddie doesn’t shrivel under its withering stare, finding that to protect Richie, he doesn’t feel afraid.

“If he’s not dirty? Why do you hide him from everyone? From darling mommy?” The clown asks with a snarl. Eddie glances at Richie, so pale he looks like a ghost. 

“It’s not safe for us,” he says. “If it was, I’d shout it from every rooftop.” When he says it he looks at Richie, more intent on assuring him than rebutting the clown. He doesn’t miss the way Richie’s expression melts, his whole face softening as he looks away from the clown and to Eddie.

It makes a choked hissing noise, stalking towards them, yellow eyes narrowed in anger when Eddie doesn’t back away. 

“You want to keep him _safe_?” The clown mocks, saliva dripping mouth twisted and pouting, IT’s yellow eyes staring hungrily at Eddie. “I can get rid of it for you, that’ll keep you safe. I can help you.” He hisses. IT reaches behind his back and pulls out an oversized pair of scissors. They glint in the light of the sewer pipe, they’re the type of scissors a mayor would hold to cut the ribbon of a new town hall, instead he holds them towards the string between Eddie and Richie. 

“No!” Eddie screams, fear flooding through him as the clown seizes their string with a wild and cruel smile. 

“I can make it all go away!” The clown laughs, moving the scissors, snipping the air slowly towards the string with chuckles as Richie and Eddie scream and plead. Eddie can feel the sharp tugs on either side of the string as he and Richie desperately try to pull the fibre from the clown’s grip. Hot tears stream down his face, his screams coming out choked and rasping, broken from sobs. 

“No more dirty little secret!” The clown laughs manically, with another wicked smile, the shrill and terrifying sound bouncing off the sewer walls. 

“Please,” Richie sobs, the sound of it a vice grip around Eddie’s heart. “Stop.” 

The clown chuckles cruelly, bringing the scissors down in half a snip and laughing harder when it makes both boys scream. “No more string! No more dirty secrets! No more dirty boys!” He torments. IT brings the scissors almost closed and then open again, repeating the motion again as Richie and Eddie beg for him to stop. 

“Fear, delicious fear,” the clown croons, happily. 

Eddie shakes, trying to grapple his fear under control, his pinky finger rubbed raw by the pull of the string. Every time he swallows his fear down the clown makes a snip with the scissors, coming just short of the string and his stomach drops again. 

“Say goodbye to your dirty little secret,” the clown says with a malicious chortle. IT slowly brings the blades of the giant scissors closer together. Eddie and Richie’s hoarse screams and echoing sobs blend into a single resonating cry of fear. 

“Eddie?” Mike’s voice rings through the sewers, bringing the clown to a halt, the sharp edge of the scissors barely an inch away from their string. “Richie?” 

“We’re in here!” Richie cries out, his voice mangled with tears but loud enough to be heard by the Losers. The splashing of boys running through the dirty water rings closer. The clown growls, shrinking away as their friends come towards them. 

It relinquishes the cord and disappears from the sewer just as the Losers round the corner. Eddie jumps into motion, gathering their string into his hands with a relieved sob, the sound clawing its way from his gut. He pulls Richie as close to himself as possible, their shaking shoulders and faces white as sheets a perfect match. 

Mike’s eyes widen in horror when he sees them. “What did it do to you?” He asks, voice tinged with concern. He reaches out a hand to reassure them and retracts it just as quickly when Eddie flinches into Richie’s side. Neither of them say anything. Eddie shakes his head roughly and tucks himself into Richie; burying his face in his shoulder and holding tight to their soulmate tie. 

“Richie?” Stan asks softly, a total shift from his terror at being left alone with the clown last Eddie saw him. “Are you okay?” 

Eddie feels Richie’s hitched sob where their chests are pressed together, his shoulder trembling as he hurriedly shakes his head. 

“I hate that fucking clown,” Richie growls, livid, words wet with tears. His arms tighten around Eddie, who can feel how his body is still shaking from residual fear. “I want to kill IT.” 

Eddie nods, pulling away from Richie before anyone can respond. He takes Richie’s hand and holds it tightly in his own, their soulmate string wrapped carefully in their grip so it’s protected. 

“Let’s go save our friends,” Eddie says, drying tears still cold on his face. Ben, Stan and Mike still look concerned, but they nod determinedly, bolstering their courage. 

Whether he’s running on a borrowed sense of adrenaline and bravery Eddie doesn’t know; but from that point on, nothing phases him. It’s difficult to be intimidated by the supernatural around them when he almost lost Richie. Not even running into the cistern and being confronted by the horrifying image of Bev floating in the air above them like a marionette high in the air, her eyes white and glassy. Terrifying, most definitely, but not enough to throw him. 

“We have to get her down,” Eddie says seriously. He turns to Ben who is staring up at her horrified, his usually pink flushed cheeks pale as a sheet and turning vaguely green. 

“Come on, help Ben grab her,” he nudges Mike, the strongest of all of them. Eddie holds his breath as they get Bev down, Ben’s hand grasping around her ankle and gently pulling her to their level; as she comes within reach the other Losers grab a hold so she doesn’t float back up above them, all staring worriedly at her frozen and dazed expression. 

“Beverly?” Ben says softly, his face screwed up with worry. “Bev?” 

No one says anything, Bev’s head lolls forward as Ben jostles her shoulders to try to wake her. Her eyes are milky white, as if she has been completely possessed. 

“Why isn’t she waking up? What’s wrong with her?” Ben wails, turning to look at them with crazed desperation in his round eyes. Eddie feels sick looking at the two of them, watching Ben go through the same terror of potentially losing his soulmate as he had only moments earlier. Richie’s palm is sweaty against his but he just clings tighter. Every second Bev remains unresponsive Eddie’s previously eased fear increases, clawing up his throat and into his stomach. 

“Bev _please_ ,” Ben gasps, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. No one says anything, unsure what they could possibly say that would help in this situation. The silence is oppressive and the seconds pass treacherously slow, every moment a chance for something to go terribly wrong. Ben steps back out of the hug, his jaw set determinedly, staring into Bev’s unseeing eyes. 

“She’s not dead,” he says softly. “Our string’s not cut, I have to pull her out of this.” Eddie can feel Richie’s shaking at Ben’s mention of a string cutting, his grip on Eddie’s hand so tight it almost hurts. He doesn’t mind the painful hold though, the touch is grounding where Eddie’s fear is threatening to pull him under, with Richie’s hand in his he still feels brave through the all consuming terror. 

Ben surges forward and presses his lips to Bev’s; a short and chaste kiss that is barely longer than the blink of an eye. There’s silence, everyone holding their breath and not completely sure why, watching Bev’s glassy eyes and praying for a change. The thick and heavy silence stretches until suddenly Bev lurches out of her daze like resurfacing the water after holding her breath for too long. The white in her eyes dissipates, leaving her bright blue eyes staring at Ben like he hung the moon and stars in the sky. 

“January embers,” Bev says, quoting something unknown to Eddie but clearly personal to Ben and Bev. That familiar flush returns to Ben’s cheeks as he smiles at her, their hands weaving together. 

“My heart burns there too,” Ben says back, equally quiet, equally reverent. 

Richie’s voice cuts through the silence with a relieved gasp of “Jesus _fuck_ ,” throwing his arms - and subsequently Eddie’s arm - around Ben and Bev, and initiating a tight and comforting group hug that encompasses them all. They bask in the moment together for a few moments, breathing in the pocket of safety in a place that reeks of danger. 

Bev pulls away first, her eyes wide. “Where’s Bill?” 

They round the corner, clipping at each other’s heels, walking to where Bill is standing painfully still, facing a crying Georgie. He looks exactly the same as the day he disappeared, from his big brown eyes that are watery with tears, to his round cheeks. The only difference is his right arm, torn off just above the elbow and dripping with blood. The air sucks out of Eddie’s chest like a vacuum at the sight of him, hitting him like a punch in the chest. He, Stan and Richie will never truly understand what Bill is going through, but Georgie meant a lot to them whether he was their brother or not. He was constantly around, a funny and adorable and at times frustrating presence at their side. Eddie misses him. He wishes he were home.

His arm is torn off just above the elbow, and his big brown eyes are watery with tears. 

“Take me home Billy, I wanna go home,” he whimpers, clutching the boat Bill made for him to his chest like a lifeline. 

“I want n-nothing more than for y-y-you to be home,” Bill says. He steps closer to Georgie and Richie’s hand squeezes tight around Eddie’s, just as terrified that this is wrong, a trap. 

“I love you Billy,” Georgie says, his tongue sticking out a little on the ‘L’ in love to make sure he doesn’t fumble it like he used to. 

Bill takes a deep shuddering breath, loud enough that Eddie can hear it from where they are standing behind him. 

“I love you t-t-too,” Bill answers, voice cracking. There’s a long silence where the two brothers stare at each other. The quiet of the cistern is almost weighted, looming over all of them and breathing down their necks. Eddie holds his breath, a feeling of unease tight in his stomach, something is wrong. 

Bill hunches his shoulders, like he’s bracing himself. 

“But you’re n-n-not Georgie,” he grits out through clenched teeth, lifting the gun in his hand and firing a single clean shot into Georgie’s forehead. 

Not-Georgie drops to the ground, completely still for just long enough that Eddie starts to doubt whether Bill was right, whether he just killed his brother for good, and then Georgie starts to shake. Not shivering, or trembling, but full bodied convulsions, screaming and roaring like a demon was caught under the skin and between Georgie’s bones. 

He convulses and flails, Georgie’s screams morphing into the inhumane growling and roaring of IT. With every spasm of his limbs they elongate and shift, transforming into the clown before their very eyes. Richie’s palm is slick and sweaty in Eddie’s hold, squeezing tighter and tighter as IT sits up, smiling at them widely with IT’s huge blood stained mouth. 

“Kill IT Bill!” Eddie screams, not terrified but instead furious as he faces the clown. 

Bill freezes for a moment, as the clown stalks towards him, before cocking the gun with shaking hands and aiming it at the clown’s head.

Eddie vaguely hears Mike yelling at them, “but it’s not loaded!” but it doesn’t matter. Bill fires two shots in quick succession and they shatter the clown’s head like a porcelain vase. IT staggers backwards, screeching in agony, before launching forwards again and grappling with Bill, IT’s sharp teeth bared to tear into their friend. 

They all attack as one, kicking and scratching at the clown, desperately trying to pull him away from Bill. The fight is a swinging pendulum as to who has the upper hand, a Loser will strike and catch Pennywise off guard, and just as quickly IT throws them around the cistern. Eddie’s heart is pounding with adrenaline but his and Richie’s sweaty palms never separate, and maybe that’s where Eddie’s bravery is stemming from, the knowledge that nothing can be as terrifying as believing the clown could take Richie from him. His best friend, his soulmate, nothing can set his heart racing like the idea of losing Richie. 

The clown manages to toss them all away from IT. Bill remains firmly in his grip as IT grins at them, displaying his prize like a predator eagerly showing off its prey. Bill is struggling in his grip, scrabbling desperately, his head caught in the clown’s giant gloved fingers. 

“Let him go,” Bev demands, but her voice comes out cracked and scared, like she’d been punched in the throat. Eddie can’t bring himself to say anything. In the final scuffle Richie’s hand had fallen out of his grip when Richie had been shoved to the ground, and he’s desperate to have that touch back, something familiar in the midst of terror. 

“No,” the clown croons, stroking Bill’s face like a pet. “I will have him, if you let me keep him, I will let you _all_ go home. I’ll have my long rest and you can all live long, and happy lives. Just gotta leave him with me.” 

Bill whimpers, going limp in the clown’s hold, the fight draining out of him. 

“Leave,” he says, hoarse and pleading, his eyes are wide and terrified but he’s firm, there’s no hesitation in his words. “I’m the o-o-one who dragged you all into this. I’m so s-s-sorry.” 

“S-s-sorry,” the clown mocks, smiling at them tauntingly, daring them to take the opportunity. 

None of the Losers move, they stand still as statues, frozen in this terrifying moment. 

“Go!” Bill yells. Still, none of them move. 

“Guys, we _can’t_ ,” Bev says suddenly, breaking the silence, but all of Eddie’s attention is on Richie, watching ashe gets to his feet from where Pennywise had left him strewn on the ground. 

“I told you Bill,” he says softly. “I _fucking_ told you, I don’t want to die, but you kept pushing. You punched me in the face,” Richie starts pacing, counting Bill’s offenses on his fingers as he lists them, “you brought me to a fucking crackhead house, you made me walk through shitty water.” 

All eyes are on Richie as he reaches into the pile of trash towering to the sky beside them. 

“And now? I’m gonna have to kill this fucking clown,” Richie spits, tugging a baseball bat free from the pile and weighing it in his hands. Eddie's heart lurches as IT drops Bill to the floor and surges at his soulmate, growling and snarling, long pointed teeth bared and dripping with saliva and bright yellow eyes flashing with malice, but Richie doesn’t even skip a beat. 

“Welcome to the Loser Club asshole!” 

He swings the baseball bat at the clown’s head like it’s a pinata at a birthday party. The blow lands hard with a crashing smack, Pennywise’s head snaps to the side, the weight behind the swing bowling him over. Everyone launches into action, following Richie’s lead, trying their best to keep the clown occupied long enough that IT can’t gain the upper hand. 

The constant shifting of who is primarily attacking the monster makes it difficult for IT to decide whose fear to embody. Burnt hands crawling from its open maw towards Mike quickly shift to the deformed woman who haunted Stan as he attacks IT with a broken pipe. Eddie watches as Stan freezes for a second in memory of the woman’s teeth dug into his face before he lets out a blood curdling scream and smashes the woman across the face with the pole. 

The cistern is a constant whirlwind of action, Ben surges forward and drives a post through IT’s stomach, causing the clown’s blood to spurt out like a punctured water balloon. In retaliation IT morphs into a mummy, dried and rotting bandages wrapping around Ben’s face and attempting to drag him into IT’s waiting mouth. 

Mike grabs hold of a chain lying on the ground and whips it into IT’s side, sending the clown flying and staggering backwards until IT is eye to eye with Eddie. 

Eddie blinks and the leper is leering back at him, his mouth hanging lopsided by his rotting jaw. IT coughs and gags, shifting forwards on his knees until he is directly in front of Eddie, projectile vomiting all over him. The smell is putrid, rotting and acidic as some hits the inside of Eddie’s mouth in disgusting chunks and slick liquid. 

He spits it out with a heaving cough, hands swiping at his eyes and fury pumping in his veins like electricity. 

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU,” Eddie screams, kicking his leg out and grinning when his foot makes contact with the leper's face with a sickening crunch. IT is flung backwards, in an arch, Eddie’s kick powerful enough to send IT flying, landing with a smack on the cold rocky floor. 

They all freeze as IT sits up, already focused on Bev, her father’s face, Alvin Marsh, staring up at her. 

“Are you still my little gi-” IT begins to ask, her father’s voice smooth and sickening in a way that drags uncomfortably down Eddie’s spine. He doesn’t get the chance to finish before Bev is shoving a piece of fence post down IT’s throat with an anguished scream. 

Finally, blessedly, the clown goes completely still. IT sits for a few seconds, frozen on bent knees with the fence post jammed down IT’s throat before coughing it up and scrabbling backwards away from them. Fingers tap against the back of Eddie’s hand, Richie, and their fingers weave together as the clown shivers in pain and Bill strides forward with purpose. 

“That’s why you d-didn’t kill Beverly,” he says, staring down the monster like IT is no more than a bug to crush. “Because she wasn’t afraid, and we aren’t either. Not anymore. Now you’re the one who’s afraid.” 

Pennywise grimaces, slobber dripping down his chin and shaking off in droplets as IT trembles. 

“Because you’re going to starve,” Bill hisses. The words strike at the clown like a physical blow; it sends him toppling backwards into the hole in the ground behind IT, hanging on with two shaking hands. 

Eddie feels nothing but pride and exhilaration as the clown whimpers and falls to its death. 

~-~-~

Since the clown died The Losers Club have gotten the chance to be normal. Well, as normal as a ragtag group of seven celebrating the one year anniversary of killing an outer space demon clown together can be. There’s something about the ferocity and chaos of the seven Losers when they are together that settles Richie to his very core. Like now, trying to return to the game of Truth or Dare following Stan’s rendition of _Baby It’s Cold Outside_ , complete with both sides of the duet and a pause in the middle to criticise the sexist implications from a modern interpretation of the song, to Richie, it feels like home. Eventually, Bev, the cause of the dare, manages to wheeze out the instruction for Stan to continue the game. 

“Richie,” Stan says cooly, sitting back down and settling his head on Bill’s lap, blonde curls a halo against Bill’s legs. The only indication that he was affected by the humiliation of the dare is a light flush along his cheekbones. “Truth or Dare?” 

Richie leans back against his couch with a raised eyebrow in contemplation. Stan’s dares are renowned in their group for digging into the very meat of their fears but Richie is similarly known for avoiding truths like the plague. The daring look on Stan’s face is enough to convince him of continuing to shy away from truths, cautious of what the little devil could attempt to pull out of him. 

“Dare,” he says, laughing off the groans of the group at his predictable answer. 

Stan taps his chin thoughtfully, but the gleam in his eyes suggests he’s had a dare in mind for a while now, possibly for the entire game if Richie knows Stan at all. Which he does. He shudders as a knowing smirk grows across Stan’s face, even Mike shivers a little beside Richie out of sympathy. 

Finally, after leaving Richie in suspense for a few seconds, a worm wriggling on a hook, Stan reveals his dare. 

“Have Eddie wear your shirt for the rest of the game,” he says casually. Richie blanches at what it insinuates but nods, shedding his overshirt - a garish black and white hawaiian print - and handing it to Eddie without making eye contact. He ignores the Losers’ protests at the easy dare.

“Usually you’re a force to be reckoned with on dares Stan!” Bev complains, curled up in Ben’s lap and looking exceedingly proud of herself about it. 

Stan doesn’t say anything, but Richie can see him studying him in his periphery, all too knowing. 

Richie can’t drag his eyes away from Eddie, his heart thumps in his throat as he shrugs the shirt onto his shoulders. It’s slightly too large on Richie, which means it swamps Eddie, the sleeves coming down to his boney elbows and the fabric pooling at his waist. He looks cute. His breath catches as Eddie pulls it tightly around himself, burying his face slightly into the collar and smiling almost secretively, his freckled cheeks warm and pleased. 

“M-Micycle,” Richie says, drawing the attention desperately away from himself and Eddie. Stan’s deliberate eyes still stay fixed on Richie despite the shift of the game. He dares Mike to do the worm, and with his surprisingly successful attempt the game moves on. 

A few dares and secrets go by but Richie is entirely distracted by Eddie. Just when he thinks he has redirected his attention to the game for the last time he finds himself staring at Eddie fiddling with the long sleeve of Richie’s shirt and has to start the process of dragging his eyes away all over again. He can feel Stan’s fixed eyes on him like nails pinning him in place, but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

“Hey Ben? T-T-Truth or dare?” Richie hears Bill ask, and he determinedly pulls himself back into the game, ignoring the way Eddie has taken to rubbing the hem of the shirt between his thumb and forefinger. 

Ben thinks on this, resting his cheek against Bev’s shoulder so he can look at Bill better, like he’s trying to gage how dangerous he is. “Truth,” he decides. 

“What was your f-f-first th-thought when you saw B-Beverly?” 

“That’s grossly sweet Bill,” Mike grumbles, making a joking face as though he has sucked on a lemon. They all giggle and make appropriately tormenting noises as Ben flushes and he goes embarrassed as he always does when questioned about Bev. 

“Honestly? I just thought _wow_ ,” Ben eventually answers, burying his face in Bev’s neck to hide from the affectionate taunts of the Losers that follow his words. Richie makes an exaggerated gagging noise, Stan makes teasing _‘ooo’_ noises, and Mike similarly goes down a teasing route, fluttering his hand in front of his face as though a Southern Belle standing in the heat. Bev just smiles proudly, tipping her head back to press an innocent kiss to Ben’s temple. “I just thought he was adorable,” she admits before anyone can ask the question they’re all wondering. “Before I was distracted by the blood of course.” 

Eddie snorts and Richie is almost embarrassed by how quickly all his attention is drawn to him. His fourteen year old body is inexplicably honed into Eddie at all times. 

“Yeah! Meanwhile I was busy trying to operate on you,” he complains. 

Richie jabs at him with his elbow, a happy thrill running through him at the immediacy of Eddie's focus shifting to him. “I would hardly call that operating Dr K, you were cleaning the wound at _best_.” 

Eddie fires up immediately, ears going red and face screwed up in anger like a rabid animal. 

“There were stitches involved Richard. Not that I’m surprised you couldn’t tell the difference. You’re so lost in your own big head you probably couldn’t find your own dick with your left hand.” 

Richie grins devilishly, winking at Eddie and choosing not to respond, as that sometimes riled him up more than anything Richie could say. 

Besides, the rest of the Losers have continued the conversation without them. By now they’re well versed in the strange balance of Richie and Eddie and choose often enough to just ignore them until they settle, something Richie can appreciate. 

Stan’s smile is soft and wistful, almost longing, as he smiles off into the distance, which can only mean one thing. Richie glances nervously at Eddie, finding he’s already come to the same conclusion. 

“I think she’ll h-have to be p-p-patient enough to deal with my stutter,” Bill is saying, a little too self deprecatingly for Richie’s liking, but Mike speaks up before he can. 

“Nah, she’ll just have to realise what you’ve got to say is worth listening to,” he reassures him, easily returning Bill’s grateful smile with a warm one of his own. 

“What about you Stan?” Bev asks, her eyes sparkling with romanticism. “No luck following your string?” 

Stan shakes his head, smiling down at his left hand like he was holding the hand of his future lover, future wife, right this moment. 

“No,” he says softly. “She’s not in Derry, I can just tell. There’s nothing good in Derry except you guys. I’ll meet her one day, and then I’ll introduce her to you Losers.”

Ben sighs wistfully, smiling at Stan. “I can’t wait to meet her.” 

Richie struggles to keep listening, intent on trying to keep his eyes from straying to Eddie, and failing spectacularly at doing just that. Eddie’s cheeks are red and embarrassed from the topic of conversation, making the freckles brought out by the sun stand out stark against his flushed face. His dark doe eyes flick up from the carpet every few seconds to meet Richie’s, both equally having difficulty to make themselves look away. In the background Stan is still talking about his soulmate, laughing with Bill at his assumption that she’ll be a ‘bird girl’. Eddie is just as distracted as Richie is, fiddling with their string and tucking and untucking his legs nervously. Richie wants to hold his hand to calm him, ease his discomfort, but at fourteen that’s too obvious. Too telling. 

“Mike?” Ben asks, drawing Richie out of his longing staring. He realises with a horrifying jolt what’s happening, that one by one they’re talking about their soulmates, or their hopes for soulmates, and the question is closing in on him and Eddie. 

Eddie must realise it too, because Richie sees his muscles go stiff even though he doesn’t perceptively move, his eyes widening ever so slightly and finally successfully avoiding Richie’s gaze. 

He barely listens as Mike talks about his hopes for meeting his future best friend. It’s common knowledge in their group that Mike has a yellow string, a platonic soulmate. But as sweet as it is to hear him say that all he hopes for them is they fit with the Losers, Richie doesn’t truly appreciate it, far too distracted with panicked thoughts about what he could possibly say in response to being asked about _his_ soulmate. 

“How about you Eddie,” Bev asks kindly, prompting gently but clearly not expecting much. Richie silently agrees with her, he’s almost positive Eddie will shut down the conversation as quickly as possible. That he’ll throw in a short anecdote about wanting to meet his soulmate someday and they would move on with their lives, and at first it seems that is exactly what Eddie is doing. 

“My soulmate?” Eddie’s finger twitches, nudging at their shared string. “She’ll be perfect.” Richie tries not to let the ‘she’ get to him, he understands the need to hide behind the lie, the safety net of it. Even something as simple as avoiding pronouns all together is suspicious in and of itself. He continues, “Not actually perfect of course, but perfectly imperfect. I reckon she’ll be a total idiot actually.” Bev lets out a loud disbelieving bark of laughter, shocked by Eddie’s honesty. 

“She’ll be funny, and a total nerd, crazy smart,” Eddie noticeably relaxes, smiling at the ground in the centre of the circle as he speaks. 

“I th-thought she’s gonna b-b-be an idiot?” Bill asks curiously, teasing lightly but clearly wanting to hear more. Richie and Eddie never talk about their soulmates, this is new territory even for their closest friends. 

Eddie snorts, a soft, fond sound. “Oh she will, but really smart anyway, like smart enough that she doesn’t need to act that way because she doesn’t need to try.” 

Richie’s heart is thrumming like a hummingbird trapped in his chest. He thinks of his own grades, straight As just working off the top of his head, academics coming as naturally to him as breathing. Eddie isn’t describing who he wishes his soulmate was, if he wasn’t tethered to Richie and stuck with him, he’s describing _him_. 

Eddie chuckles softly, like he’s imagining something, or revisiting a loved memory. “My soulmate will definitely be funnier than you Losers,” he teases. The Losers explode into outraged shouts and Richie manages to make a weak sound of protest to avoid suspicion, too distracted by Eddie’s words ringing in his ears to do much more. “Not that that’s difficult,” Eddie adds with a grin, prompting a second round of protesting. 

“What else?” Ben asks gently, prodding Eddie to continue but not pushing. The Losers hush immediately, fascinated to hear more; Richie finds himself joining them. 

“She’ll be beautiful,” Eddie says, voice going so quiet the Losers have to lean in to hear it. Richie’s heart skips in his chest, thundering against his rib cage. Everyone is watching Eddie with rapt fascination, listening reverently and hanging off his every word. “Maybe not to everyone, probably not even by most standards… but to me? She’s the most beautiful person I’ll ever meet.” 

Eddie’s eyes glance up from the floor to quickly meet Richie’s before darting away, gauging his reaction but not willing to linger lest someone notice. The second of contact, enough to remind Richie that Eddie really is talking about him, sets Richie’s cheeks aflame. 

_Beautiful_ , he thinks, disbelievingly. Staring wide eyed and more than a little bit starstruck at Eddie, butterfly wings batting in his stomach in a flurry of activity. 

Ben sighs romantically, his eyes a little dewey. “That’s so romantic Eddie.” 

“Y-you’re not usually so interested in s-s-soulmates,” Bill says curiously. The group nods their assent to this observation, waiting patiently for him to explain. 

Eddie shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the floor again. “I guess I’ve just been thinking about my soulmate… a lot recently,” he says, embarrassed, like he doesn’t want to be admitting it out loud. Heat floods into Richie’s cheeks in a rush at the implication of Eddie’s words. 

“You okay Rich?” Bev asks, not unkindly, turning the attention of the now concerned group to him. “You’ve gone all red.” 

Richie ducks away from Eddie’s amused gaze, swallowing roughly and thanking the stars that his voice comes out relatively normal. 

“Hmm? Oh yeah I’m fine.” He makes a dramatic and exaggerated cough as though clearing his lungs. “Think I might be having an allergic reaction to how sickly sweet that was though Eduardo.” 

He grins as Eddie glares at him, the frustration lacking its usual heat. He pokes his tongue out childishly in tandem with Eddie miming winding up his middle finger to flip Richie off. 

“What about you T-Trashmouth?” Bill teases, reaching across the circle with his leg, toes digging sharply into Richie’s ribs. The group echoes Bill eagerly, their eyes and ears now trained on him, waiting for his supposed ‘imagined soulmate’. 

Richie waves his hands dismissively. “It doesn’t matter what my soulmate’s like,” he says, laughing as the Losers shout their objections to his weak cop out. “No seriously,” he pushes, Eddie’s eyes burning into his side. “She could be the loudest person in the room,” he stumbles over the pronoun slightly but no one seems to notice. “Or objectively be an asshole, feral, loud, never hesitate to snap at me, anything, it wouldn’t matter to me at all.” 

The Losers are hanging off his words like they did for Eddie, eagerly waiting to hear more. 

“I’m going to love her more than anything else in this world,” he says, careful not to look at Eddie when he says it. “I think I already do.” 

The Losers are silent at this, contemplative. Stan is finally the one to speak up. 

“That’s surprisingly genuine,” he says, laughing a little as Richie plays up being mortally offended at the suggestion. 

He shrugs, purposefully lighthearted about it. 

“I guess my soulmate just brings that out in me,” he replies. 

He chances a glance at Eddie, but he’s already looking at Richie, doe eyes wide and awed, lips parted in surprise. Richie smiles at him, watching happily as Eddie’s lips twitch into a smile back at him. He twirls their red string around his finger, giving it a little tug, his heart fluttering as Eddie copies the motion. 

They stay with their fingers twisted in the fibre for the rest of the evening. 

~-~-~

The tap at his window is a familiar sound by now. Eddie glances up from his comic book to the darkened window. It’s a little early for Richie to be coming by, he usually waits until his parents are asleep, to avoid the unlikely but possible chance of them coming in to talk to him, only to find him missing. Still, the tap is unmistakable. 

Eddie gets to his feet with a groan, pulling the window open and squinting at Richie sitting in the tree waiting for him. “Holy _fuck_ ,” he hisses when he catches a glimpse of his best friend’s face. Richie grimaces, beckoning for Eddie to stand back and making the step from the secure branches to Eddie’s windowsill, shooing Eddie away when his fluttering hands scrabble at his arms. 

His face is covered in scratches and blood, his right eye almost completely bruised shut and lip split open. There’s a sizable gash from his left cheek to his temple and Eddie’s stomach turns just looking at it. 

“What the fuck happened?” Eddie asks when Richie doesn’t say anything, toeing at the floor like he’s embarrassed. He’s filled out a lot since their younger years. At thirteen he had been all knobbly elbows and knees, now at sixteen they have made way for long arms and legs, at least four inches taller than Eddie at this point, and a jaw that’s strong and pronounced. Not that Eddie has noticed. 

Richie shrugs. “The usual, it’s fine, nothing Dr K can’t patch up.” He says it lightly and jokingly, smiling sheepishly and then immediately stopping with a wince. 

“Richie,” Eddie admonishes, taking his arm and lowering him onto Eddie’s bed. He watches in concern as Richie doesn’t even put up a fight, face screwed up in pain as he levers himself into a more comfortable sitting position. Eddie takes note of the points of his body he seems to be avoiding touching, indicating there are more bruises hidden under the layers of clothing. “Your face is beaten to pulp, this isn’t the _usual_.” He hovers in front of Richie’s face, taking damage control. Richie shrugs again, dismissively. He stares up at the ceiling to avoid Eddie’s imploring look and Eddie misses his gaze immediately. 

He bends to a kneel in front of Richie, putting both hands on his knees until he looks down at him, making eye contact again. Eddie has to swallow the urge to flinch at the dark bruise around Richie’s right eye now that he’s seeing it in better light. 

“What happened?” he asks again, softer. Richie hesitates, opening his mouth as though going to speak, and then closing it again. Eddie waits patiently until he’s ready, cataloguing his injuries as they sit in silence. A decent scrape along the bridge of his nose, under his glasses, dried blood leaking out of his nose, dark bruises forming along his jawbone. 

Finally, Richie speaks. “I mean it when I say it’s nothing new. Just some guys tormenting me about my _disgusting gay tendencies_ ,” he says, tone deprecating and dark. His eyes are heavy with the weight of the words that follow him around town, Eddie gets them too of course, but Richie has always copped the brunt of it. Whether because he purposefully turns any of Eddie’s tormentors on himself, or because the bullies of town find him a more clear target is unclear, although Eddie suspects it’s the former. It kills Eddie to see Richie starting to believe them. 

“Don’t say that,” Eddie cuts over him before he can continue, furrowing his eyebrows as though daring Richie to argue. They stay still and silent until Richie nods in acceptance. “So how did -” Eddie gestures to Richie’s face “- this happen?” 

Richie grins, the expression lacking its usual charm with one eye swollen shut. “My devilish good looks? I was born with those.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, quashing a smile with practised ease. “You know what I mean, dickwad.” 

Richie sighs, shoulders slumping. He glances at Eddie sadly then looks away, the beginning of an Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows thickly. “They were mocking me about… about my soulmate…” His eyes snap back to Eddie’s as though to determine how he is reacting, Eddie blinks back at him. “They started yelling at me from across the street and joking about…” he trails off, shaking his head and stares at Eddie with an upset expression. “I don’t want you to hear it Eddie.” 

“Don’t baby me, I want to know what happened,” Eddie says, resenting the idea Richie would soften the story for him. 

Richie shifts and stares down at his lap but does continue. “About how I must be tied to another little fag and that-” he cuts himself off, face pained. Eddie nudges him to continue. “They said that if they could follow my string and hunt ‘the other little faggot’ down they’d teach us both a lesson.” Eddie inhales sharply, rubbing a thumb across Richie’s knee apologetically when he grimaces. “I guess they had to make do with just me.” Richie gestures a hand loosely across his beaten face. 

“I made it worse, kept talking.” He screws up his nose in agreement as Eddie groans lowly in his throat. “Asked if they were jealous I wasn’t on my knees for their cock… that kind of stuff.” Eddie’s cheeks colour at the crude image. “They didn’t like that so much, that’s how I got this beauty,” Richie points to the swollen eye with a half hearted smile. 

“Why do you antagonise them?” Eddie asks with a sigh, crossing the room to get his medical supplies and returning to his spot in front of Richie. 

“I can’t let them say that shit about you Eds,” Richie replies hotly, anger flashing across his face like lightning in a storm. Eddie’s heart clenches at the words, at the love and care behind them, he bows his head to rummage through his first aid kit until he finds antiseptic wipes. 

It’s no secret to either of them that they’re head over heels for the other, but Derry is a dangerous place for people like them. Richie’s face is a testament to that. It’s already enough of a target on their back to be hiding a secret like the red line of cord between them, to actually pursue it, would be a death sentence. They have an unspoken agreement not to mention the longing between them, the occasional tenderness that slips into their expressions when they look at each other for too long, the flushed cheeks and desire. Eddie knows he doesn’t want to risk it, wants for them to enjoy this, when they can finally have it; but sometimes he wishes he could lean forward and kiss the sad frown off Richie’s face. Or, wishes he could mention the unspoken love in Richie’s words, thank him, adore him. 

Instead he squeezes onto the bed beside Richie and reaches for his glasses, tipping his head in a silent question. When Richie nods his permission he delicately removes them, folding them carefully and placing them on the desk to the left of the bed. He hisses in sympathy at the bruises, now unobstructed he can see the darkness of them, the swelling around Richie’s temple. There’s a suspiciously large bruise that was hidden behind the arm of his glasses and flop of his curls earlier, a square shape that starts at his cheekbone and disappears into his hair. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut to quell the image of a boot crushing into Richie’s face, bile rising in his throat at the very idea of it. 

“I don’t care what they say about me,” Eddie grits out, holding up a finger to stop Richie from cutting over him. Richie turns his head with a huff, glaring at the far wall. “Nothing is worth you getting hurt like this Rich,” he says softly. He gently takes Richie’s face and turns it so they are eye to eye. “ _Nothing_ ,” he repeats adamantly, determined that Richie understands. 

Richie heaves a sigh, eyes going soft as he looks at Eddie, which in turn pools warmth in Eddie’s stomach. “I can’t promise I won’t do it again,” Richie says eventually, and at the beginning of Eddie’s protests adds. “But I am sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” 

Eddie tightens his jaw but accepts that response as the best he’s going to get. He gingerly reaches out a hand, brushing the pad of his thumb tenderly over a lighter bruise along Richie’s cheek. He snatches his hand away as Richie draws in a sharp breath, eyes wide as saucers. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” He worries, hand tucked into his chest as if potentially hurting Richie had physically injured him. 

“N-no, you didn’t hurt me,” Richie says, his voice hushed. “Really Eds,” Richie assures him, returning to normal with the exception of a flustered smile on his lips. He nudges Eddie with his toes. “I’m okay.” 

With a rough swallow Eddie nods, snatching an antiseptic wipe from the packet with a little too much force. “This might hurt,” he warns. “And don’t call me that.” 

“Aw, you love it Spaghetti,” Richie croons, cutting off with a hiss as Eddie presses the wipe to a particularly large cut. “Doesn’t hurt at all-” he tries to assure Eddie, or appear stronger than he is, whichever he’s trying for he fails with the pained laugh his words dissolve into. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything. 

He works in silence for a while, dabbing with the wipe at the blood around Richie’s injuries, cleaning the wounds with well practised precision. Richie’s breath hitches when Eddie reaches his lip, gently wiping at the cut there and trying futilely not to imagine pressing their mouths together, breathing each other in, kissing until they forget everything about this town. 

Eddie doesn’t do that, instead he throws the now dirty wipes into a plastic bag and rummages deeper into his first aid kit. He shuffles forwards, so he’s perched between Richie’s knees, ignoring the way the close proximity makes his ears burn and the butterflies in his stomach swoon. “That’s the easy part done,” he tries for levity. 

Richie blinks at him. “You’re kidding right?” 

“Unfortunately not.” Eddie grimaces and wiggles the tweezers in his hand around to emphasise the point. Richie’s face drops at the sight of them but he tips his head willingly, screwing his eyes closed. 

He cleans out gravel from the cuts diligently, apologising softly whenever Richie winces and trying as best as he can not to aggravate the sores too badly. 

“Just, gimme a second,” Richie says hoarsely after a particularly difficult piece has been extracted. His chest rising and falling heavily with pain and tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Eddie rests his forehead against Richie’s shoulder, allowing a long pause as he gathers himself. 

“You’re doing so well,” Eddie mumbles praise softly, giving Richie as long as he needs. He raises his head when Richie taps on Eddie’s leg, indicating he’s ready to go again. They finish the rest of the cleaning out easily and move on to bandaging. 

“Can we skip the antibiotic gel?” Richie asks hopefully, his pleading falling on Eddie’s deaf ears. 

“You’d better be fucking joking, this cut is deep enough I should give you _stitches_. Do you know how much bacteria could get in this wound Richie? Do you want to die of an infection?” Eddie demands, glaring at him. Richie smiles back, eyes fond and self satisfied, like he drew the exact reaction out of Eddie that he had wanted. His heart stutters in his chest but he doesn’t give Richie the satisfaction of realising his effect on Eddie, slathering some antibiotic onto his fingers and applying it to one of the smaller cuts. 

Richie lets out a yelp at the sensation and flings himself backwards away from Eddie’s touch, tumbling from the bed and onto the unforgiving floor with a low groan. He freezes immediately, as does Eddie, their ears strained for any sign of Sonia Kaspbrak. Eddie holds his breath, slowly releasing it when the house remains silent. He looks over the edge of the edge of the bed to glare at Richie. 

“Holy _fuck_ that hurt,” Richie grunts, slowly lifting himself up from the ground with a pained whine. 

Eddie huffs, reaching out his hand to help Richie up onto the bed again. “You’re the idiot who decided to roll off my bed.” 

Richie pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. “I hate that stuff, it hurts, and it smells gross,” he complains, but does shift closer so Eddie can start working again. 

“I haven’t cleaned all of these wounds just for you to get fucking impetigo from an infection,” Eddie says, hand curled around Richie’s jaw protectively, effectively stopping him from moving as he applies the gel. “It’ll be over before you know it,” he assures when Richie whimpers. His hold on Richie’s face softens as he stops putting up a fight, until he’s just cupping his jaw to keep his hands steady, fingers skimming the soft skin of his cheek. 

They don’t speak as Eddie bandages the larger cuts, applying gauze and tape with soft presses of his fingers. Richie’s eyes are downturned and sad, like he’s trying not to cry. The sight of it, Richie so downtrodden and quiet makes Eddie’s chest feel hollow. 

He swallows heavily, leaning forward and pressing a light, feathery kiss to Richie’s temple, just above a large cut. He closes his eyes, ignoring Richie’s sharp intake of breath, hesitates with his lips brushing almost imperceptibly on Richie’s skin. 

“Kiss it better, right?” He echoes the words he’s heard Maggie saying to them so many times throughout their lives. He offers one last light kiss on top of the bandage and moves away, his heart hammering against his ribcage. 

Richie is staring at him, eyes glazed without his glasses and breath shuddering, lips parted in awe. 

“Thanks Eds,” he says eventually, voice hoarse and besotted. 

Eddie nods, looking away before he does something stupid, like kiss Richie again right on his stupid mouth. 

~-~-~

The weight of Ben’s absence trails after them and sits on their shoulders, heavy and muggy all the way to the barrens. His moving hit them hard, harder than Richie expected if he’s being honest. His only point of reference for how this would feel was Bev and Bill leaving almost a year ago, and their moves hadn’t been so difficult. So unbearable. 

It wasn’t that they didn’t hurt, it was just a delayed pain. They hadn’t realised at the time that anything would go wrong, so the only real upset had been that they wouldn’t be able to spend their sophomore year together. Their departures were bittersweet, a week apart, with promises of letters, phone calls, postcards and most importantly plans to return as often as possible. So their leaving hadn’t been so bad. 

It had been the weeks that followed. When the phone calls slowly trailed off until neither of them were calling at all. When no letters arrived even though the five remaining Losers checked early every morning and late every night. That was what left a sour taste in the Losers’ mouth, a painful hollow that sat in the centre of their chests that nothing could fill. It was painful and stung like lemon juice in an open wound. 

Once Richie had called Bill, excited to tell him about the newest school drama and something stupid Eddie had done, and Bill hadn’t recognised his voice. 

“Richie? I don’t know a Richie?” Bill had said, without a single stutter. 

Richie had barked a harsh laugh, his heart clenching painfully. “Come on man this isn’t funny.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bill had responded, the frown evident in his voice. “I think you have the wrong number.” 

The dial tone rang loud in Richie’s ear, his chest cleaved itself open. Bill was his brother, they weren’t always on the same page, but no matter what they were always there for each other. He was a constant reassuring presence, as much a part of Richie’s life as his heartbeat, or his limbs. The loss of him was palpable, like a pillar of Richie’s life had been knocked out from under him and now everything was off kilter. 

From there everything steadily worsened. Richie still remembers sitting in the hammock of the clubhouse, absently turning the pages of his newest comic, his bruised and black eye almost completely healed. Ben had clambered in, tear stains down his flushed and ruddy face. He’d explained that he had tried to call Beverly, she didn’t remember him, didn’t remember she had ever met her soulmate. Ben told him how Bev had answered the phone confused and not recognising his voice, just as Bill had with Richie, and when Ben had tried to explain they were soulmates, tried to jog her memory she had screamed at him for pulling such a horrible prank and hung up on him. He delivered the entire story with hitching breaths and tears running down his cheeks. None of them ever tried to call again. 

So, Bev and Bill leaving hadn’t been difficult at all. It was when they realised they were never coming back, that was what hurt. That was what tore their hearts out, what left Richie feeling like his lungs were thick and heavy with molasses, each breath painful and lethargic. The realisation that they didn’t remember any of it, not Derry, not the clown, and most certainly, not the Losers Club. 

Ben was different, because they had known what would happen. They knew it wasn’t just _“goodbye! See you next break when you visit!”_. There was no guarantee he would ever speak to them again. He had hugged them all, so tight the air had been squeezed out of Richie’s lungs, with whispered assurances that he loved them. Richie was grateful he hadn’t made empty promises, no promises of phone calls or letters, it would only hurt more when he didn’t follow through. Nevertheless, Richie has found himself waiting by the phone, hoping for a phone call that never came. So when Mike called and suggested they all head down to the quarry he had accepted without a second thought, he needed to get out of his head. 

Still, it’s difficult to muster up his usual spirits and joke around without Ben there to give his constant smiles, always laughing no matter how terrible the joke was. After the entire bike ride with Eddie and Stan by his side, Mike meeting them there, the silence is getting to him. Crawling under his skin, biting and nipping until he can’t take it anymore. Silence has always been killer for Richie, it itches and scratches at him until he’s writhing in discomfort. He’s always preferred the loud shouting of people pissed off at him to the dense feeling of silence draped over his shoulders. So he breaks it, it’s what he does best. 

As the boys start shedding their clothing in the warm sun, preparing to jump into the water Richie lets out a loud wolf whistle. 

“Eddie Spaghetti!” He swoons into Mike, fanning at his face with Victorian level flair. “My my! A little ol’ girl like me shouldn’t be seen in the presence of a handsome man like you! What will people think?” He grins as Eddie goes a predictable shade of red, flushing all the way down his neck and onto his shoulders. Even after all their years of friendship, he’s still unable to handle Richie’s more flirtatious jokes. 

He rounds on Stan. “Staniel! If I’d known all these years all it’d take to get you stripping for me was a dip in the lake then I would’ve come here sooner!” He teases, grinning wolfishly and bumping Stan with his hip until he finally acknowledges Richie’s joking around. 

Stan rolls his eyes, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Beep beep Richie,” he mutters fondly, chastising him but warm with affection. 

Richie listens as Eddie huffs under his breath, mumbling something about how “that joke doesn’t even make sense, we swim in the quarry all the time.” 

He turns to Mike with a whistle of admiration, framing his abs with squared fingers and an appreciative nod. “Need I say more?” He asks, laughing when Mike shoves him lightly so he skips backwards, the quarry water lapping at his ankles. 

The tension is successfully broken, and Eddie runs into the water with a loud laugh that rings out around the quarry like echoing bells. Richie follows him with more hesitancy, the water icy and freezing cold around his knees as he slowly edges in. Eddie has always been immune to cold temperatures, and is an absolute dick about it. He has a habit of digging his cold fingers into Richie’s sides through the entirety of winter, laughing when Richie squirms away and shouts. In summer he’s more bold about the cold temperatures of the quarry than any of the other Losers, Richie watches - definitely not mesmerized by the drip of water over Eddie’s freckled shoulders thank you very much - as Eddie dives under. 

“Come on Trashmouth,” he calls over his shoulder when he emerges, wet hair plastered to his forehead and an impish grin on his face, Richie’s heart clenches. “Unless you’re too chicken?” 

“I’m not chicken!” Richie retorts, scandalised, still tiptoeing his way into the water slowly, the cold making his teeth chatter as his body slowly adjusts. “Just because I’m aware of the fucking _arctic_ temperature of this water, doesn’t make me chicken!” 

Eddie makes clucking noises, sticking his hands under his armpits and wagging them up and down like chicken wings. Richie’s heart skips several beats, flushed warm all over as he stares hopelessly endeared at Eddie’s puffed out cheeks and crossed brown eyes. 

“I’m with Richie,” Stan agrees, even further out of the quarry than Richie is, the water only up to his ankles.

Eddie scoffs, dropping his arms to his sides from his chicken dance. “No shit. You’re a wimp about the cold Stan.” 

Stan doesn’t grace Eddie with a response, just flicks up his middle finger and shoots Eddie a glare. 

“Alright that’s it,” Eddie huffs as Richie edges a little further into the water. He runs forward, a devilish grin on his face that flips Richie’s stomach both with affection and fear. Richie barely gets a second to heave a gulp of air into his lungs before Eddie’s arms are wrapping tight around his middle, pulling him under the still water of the quarry. Ice cold liquid floods over Richie but Eddie’s arms are warm and secure, and they tug him to the surface quickly. 

Richie breaches the surface with a gasp and the coolness of the water on his face quickly burns when he realises the position they’re in. They’ve always been physically affectionate, Richie’s an incredibly tactile person and he knows Eddie’s more grateful for the touch than he lets on, but this is the kind of touch they usually avoid. Eddie’s chest pressed firmly against Richie’s, his bare skin warm where it’s touching him, his arms looped around Richie’s back.

Eddie’s face is tucked onto Richie’s shoulder, which means his feet can’t be touching the rocky floor of the quarry, and his lips are close enough to Richie’s ear that if he leaned in an inch they would be brushing along the shell. Every place smooth skin presses together makes Richie feel like he’s glowing, tingling and electric with energy, a live wire exposed. 

“Damn Eddie Spaghetti, if you needed a hug all you have to do is ask,” Richie teases, dispelling his own traitorous feelings as much as possible. It’s not that he doesn’t know Eddie feels the same, of course he does, their string looped between them is evidence enough, but with Stan and Mike watching them he feels exposed and raw. As if he’s peeled open and his insides are on display for the world to see, their friends, anyone who were to walk by the quarry at this moment. Everything he wants, Eddie’s arms around him, whilst being the safest thing in the world, are also the sentencing to his destruction. All it would take was one person to look just enough into the touch, and they would see right through Richie’s paper thin skin to his heart and realise that its every beat and pound, is for Eddie. 

Richie pulls away from the touch, Eddie doesn’t seem to mind as he nudges their shoulders together happily. Richie tries not to stare at the way his brown eyes dance with the light reflecting from the water, turning his dark brown eyes the colour of toffee. He’s beautiful like this, standing amidst the trees and enclosed in the safety of the cliff faces, laughing freely and smiling at Richie warmly. 

“Alright Stan the Man,” he hears Mike say, having entered the water himself at some time while Richie was distracted by Eddie.

Stan screeches in protest as Mike lobs him over one shoulder, his wiry limbs pale and gangly against Mike’s dark and muscled skin. Mike seems unperturbed by Stan beating his fists into his back and cursing so rapidly and crudely that Richie’s sure even Eddie would be hesitant to repeat it. Richie and Eddie cheer as Mike throws Stan into the water with a thrashing splash. Stan emerges to Richie’s wolf whistles and whoops of celebration with a frustrated scowl and an affectionate twinkle to his eyes. 

“Alright that’s it, you’ll pay for that,” Stan threatens, throwing himself after Mike who lets out a boisterous laugh as he attempts to swim away. 

The afternoon passes in a mess of splashing, laughter and the Derry summer sun hot on the backs of their heads. At one point Stan challenges Eddie to a chicken fight and Richie ends up desperately trying not to lose his shit with Eddie’s thighs bracketing his head as he tries (and fails) to stay upright long enough for them to beat Mike and Stan. The chicken fight battle ends 6-1, Mike and Stan holding first place confidently. With the singular time Richie and Eddie managed to win being when Stan accidentally kicked Richie in the face and Mike laughed so hard he and Stan toppled over into the water. 

It counts. 

Afternoon rolls around, the sun casting a warm glow over the sparkling water, starting to sink towards the cliff faces as night creeps closer. Stan and Richie are first out of the water, as they always are, able to feel the cold more acutely than the other Losers.

Richie shakes his head like a dog, spraying water droplets all over a complaining Stan. He can feel Eddie’s eyes burning into him as he takes a seat beside Stan on the rocks, running a hand through his messy wet curls; but when he glances over Eddie is looking intently at the water, his cheeks a dark shade of red. Richie waves with a cheeky grin. 

He turns to Stan and finds him already looking at him, contemplative; his eyebrows furrowed slightly, and mouth twisted in thought. 

“Have I got something on my face, Staniel?” Richie asks, patting at his face to search for a leaf or some mud that might have gotten stuck there. Stan shakes his head, still looking at Richie in that puzzling way, like he’s trying to find something in his expression. Richie slowly drops his hands. 

Finally, Stan turns to look at the water where Mike and Eddie are racing, Mike several yards ahead of Eddie. “You and Eddie are really close huh?” Stan says eventually. 

Richie shrugs, not really understanding what Stan is trying to say. He follows his gaze, softening as he watches Eddie red-faced and screaming something about being faster on land than in the water. 

“I mean, duh?” Richie says, not looking away from Eddie. “I love all you Losers, you’re my family.” 

Stan huffs a little, frustrated. “No I mean, you’re closer than any of us. You two are different.” 

He feels his chest seize a little, terrified by what Stan is implying. He watches Eddie, finally relaxing again, smiling as he taps at the water and makes ripples that float around him. The red string between them floating languidly in the water, swirling and stretched between them. He experiments a subtle tug of the cord, just to watch Eddie’s head snap up with wide eyes and immediately smile, lighting up when he looks at him, at Richie. Something has changed between them over the years, slowly, and never commented on. It's become a well known fact to the two of them, that one day, far from Derry, they will chase these feelings. The ones that have consumed Richie since before he knew what love was. 

He forces a laugh, tearing his eyes away from Eddie to look at Stan. “Awww,” he croons, tucking Stan under his arm. “Are you jealous Stanley?” 

Stan grunts, shrugging Richie off with his signature glare that Richie has been on the wrong end of so often over the years. “Of course not. I just-” he makes a frustrated noise. “- I want you to know it’s okay.” 

Richie blinks, caught off guard. “I don’t know what you mean,” he responds honestly, looking at his lap, his hands, anywhere away from Stan’s imploring eyes. 

“You’re my best friend Rich,” Stan says, his tone genuine and honest, Stan is usually soft spoken by nature but the words are delivered loud and with a degree of finality; as if there is no question of the fact that Richie is his best friend. Stan never says anything he doesn’t believe, so it’s enough to clutch painfully at Richie’s heart. “Nothing will ever change that, I’ll always love you.” 

Richie nods, squeezing his eyes shut to stop any tears from slipping past. Bowers’ voice, the clown’s voice, they still echo in his mind after all these years. Their whispers slip into Richie’s consciousness, reminding him he’ll never truly be loved. Not if anyone knows his _dirty little secret_. 

_“Run away little fairy boy, once they realise, they’ll all be gone,”_ Bowers sneers in his mind. 

Stan sighs, shifting closer so they’re pressed together from hip to shoulder. “Just know that? I’ll love you no matter what. Okay?” 

Richie manages to muster a watery smile. “Okay,” he replies, the word snagging in his throat, catching on the tears Richie refuses to shed. It feels dangerous, like Stan knows too much, the alarm bells in Richie’s head are screaming, but nothing happens. Stan just nudges his shoulder warmly, and doesn’t push further, for that Richie is grateful. 

~-~-~

“Eddie-bear?” Sonia says, her knife and fork clinking against her plate as she eats. Eddie looks up from his own dinner with a hum of acknowledgement. “How was your day?” 

He raises an eyebrow in suspicion, chewing slowly on a mouthful of steak slowly. It’s not that it’s unusual for his mother to try to start conversations with him at the dinner table, she’s never quite understood that he wants no part of talking to her and only joins her for dinner out of obligation. No, he’s more suspicious of where it could lead; conversations with his mother never go well. 

Their relationship never recovered after that day he stood up to her when he was thirteen, now four years ago. Eddie hadn’t been willing to take her treatment any longer, fighting against the painful anxiety that threatened to swallow him every time he stands up to her, and since that day he’s had a significant amount more freedom than he was ever allowed before, mostly due to him not giving her the choice to say no. That doesn’t stop her from trying. She continuously harps over his health, fusses over any scrape or minor cold, openly insults his friends and desperately tries to force Eddie to have a proper mother-son relationship with her. 

“It was nice,” he replies politely, no emotion behind it. “I went over to the Tozier’s and Richie and I hung out since Stan and Mike were busy.” 

Sonia’s eyes darken at the mention of Richie, still her least favourite of Eddie’s friends, ironic considering without question Richie is Eddie’s favourite person to ever exist. 

Still, she maintains her conversational tone. “That’s nice, did you have a good time?” 

The hair on the back of Eddie’s neck prickles, this conversation going far too pleasantly to not be suspicious. 

“Yeah, we had fun,” he says cautiously. 

She nods, knife sawing at her steak with grating slices. “That’s good.” There’s a beat of silence before Sonia speaks again. “I’ve been thinking Eddie-bear, I’m not sure this air is good for your health.” 

Eddie levels her with a glare. “I’m not sick Ma, remember?” 

She nods roughly, closing her eyes as if she’s trying not to roll her eyes at him, like he’s some toddler throwing a fit over a broken toy rather than a seventeen year old trying to remind her that his ‘illness’ is all in her head. 

“Yes yes, you don’t need medicine I understand Eddie-bear, I listen to you,” she assures him sweetly. Eddie’s stomach turns at her generous tone, she has outright refused to accept he doesn’t need his medicine for years. So why accept it now? 

“Okay, then the air isn’t bad for my health…” he explains. Every interaction and word spoken makes the conversation feel like winding up a jack in the box, anticipating and flinching in preparation for the inevitable crash. 

Sonia doesn’t even acknowledge that he spoke, waving her speared piece of steak on her fork to emphasise what she’s saying. “I was reading recently that living near the sea is incredibly good for health, and that village air can cause health problems even when none exist.” 

Eddie listens as the conversation’s handle of the jack in the box turns and turns, the music growing louder and louder. 

“What are you saying Ma?” He asks. 

Sonia puts down her knife and fork, they knock against the wood table, and folds her hands in front of her. Eddie braces for impact, something tight and nervous sitting in his chest. 

“We’re moving Eddie-bear. To the sea.” 

The world falls out from under Eddie. His knife scrapes painfully loud and shrill across his plate, missing his steak altogether in his horror. 

“No,” he says. He can’t feel anything, like his chest and brain is filling with a murky heavy liquid until his emotions are encompassed in the oppressive sadness. “No we can’t.” 

His mother seems entirely unbothered by his reaction. 

“Yes we can and we are. In two weeks Eddie.” 

Two weeks. 

In two weeks he will leave his home, leave his friends and forget them forever. Gone are dreams of spending his senior year with his best friends, with his soulmate, of running away together after the school year ends and they’re finally eighteen. Dreams of never having to forget each other. The numbness slips away, replaced with a sadness and anger that scratches and tears at his insides, pulling apart his internal organs and stuffing his throat with sadness until he can’t breathe. 

Eddie lets his cutlery crash to the plate, pushing his chair back harshly. 

“I hate you,” he hisses, tears stinging at his eyes. He blinks them back determinedly, his mother doesn’t deserve to see that vulnerable part of him. 

She doesn’t even flinch, expression impassive and uncaring, hands still folded diplomatically atop the table. “This is why I waited to tell you Eddie, I knew you would be selfish and cruel about it.” 

Hot anger flashes through him like a lightning strike against a metal rod. “Fuck you,” he spits, Sonia’s eyebrows furrow in anger but she says nothing in response. “You are taking me away from my best friends from…” _from my soulmate_ he thinks with a sharp ache of pain, thinking of Richie’s smiling face. “From everything I love and you don’t even care.” 

“You’ll still be with me Eddie,” she reminds him coldly. 

He lets out a harsh bark of laughter, shoving his chair back into place at the table and backing away, leaving his unfinished dinner. “I hate you,” he repeats again, stomping his way up the stairs. 

Flashes of his friends’ faces dance in his mind as hot tears finally spill down his cheeks, heaving sobs wracking through him while he slams the door closed with as much force as he can muster. The crash makes the frames on his wall rattle. 

He doesn’t tell anyone for two whole days. Hoping that if he doesn’t say it, doesn’t speak it into existence, it won’t be true, but it doesn’t work. His mother still hands him a stack of flattened cardboard boxes and a sharpie, with instructions to sort his stuff into them over the weekend. Whether he talks to his friends about it or not, that doesn’t stop his mother from telling him about their new house, all the benefits to his health the move will bring. It doesn’t stop his heart from crumbling into pieces, chunk by chunk, falling into his hands. 

He organises a trip to the clubhouse, making sure to tell Richie to be there a couple of hours earlier than the others. They rarely visit the clubhouse anymore, the memories of Ben’s hard work, Bev sitting against the side beams, Bill’s music collection, too raw, too intense sitting in what was once a shared space. Even still, it feels like the only place right to break the news to the others, only right. 

Eddie arrives twenty minutes too early, and spends the time waiting for Richie pacing back and forth, the dirt floor kicking up beneath his scuffed sneakers. He twists his fingers together, tugging and twirling the string attached there fretfully. 

“Yo Spagheds, you trying to pull my finger off?” Richie’s voice calls from the clubhouse trapdoor as he steps in, a playful grin on his face. That gorgeous smile that makes Eddie’s heart race. He longs for him, he wants him so badly it hurts, he wants to thread his fingers through his curls and kiss him until his knees go weak. Not here, not in Derry, that was the agreement. They would leave together and have each other, forever. Now, he will never get to have him and it’s all his mother’s fault. He clenches his fists tightly by his sides to deter himself from lunging forward, from kissing that dumb, wide smile off Richie’s dumb, gorgeous face. 

“What the fuck is a Spagheds, not even a single part of that is my name,” Eddie complains instead. 

Richie’s smile turns wolfish, leaning against the ladder with crossed arms. Eddie wants to lean into his arms, to let Richie fold him up and never let him go. “Eddie Spaghetti, plus a combo with Eds, and there you have it, Spagheds. The perfect combination of two excellent nicknames.” 

Eddie directs a glare at him, determinedly suppressing the smile tugging at his lips as Richie’s cocky grin never falters. 

“I will tear your throat out with my teeth,” Eddie says, pointing a finger threateningly at Richie. 

“Hot,” Richie replies without a beat of hesitation. “Love when you’re mean to me.” 

Eddie scoffs, “God you’re so stupid.” Richie moans pornographically at his words and Eddie scowls to hide the flush rising up his neck. 

“Mmm yeah that’s the stuff.” 

Eddie can’t help but smile, Richie has that effect on him. He’s stupid, and gets on every one of Eddie’s nerves and then some more, but he has a knack for pulling Eddie out of his head and getting him laughing even on his worst days. 

They tease and rile each other up for a few minutes, Eddie lets himself relax into the comfort of being with Richie. He’s listening to Richie tell some dumb story about a girl in algebra when he starts worrying their string between his fingers again absentmindedly. 

“So what’s up?” Richie asks, cutting his own story off. He uses the string between them to exaggeratedly draw Eddie closer, like he’s reeling in a fish. “You seem upset.” 

Eddie’s good mood sinks to his feet, his stomach dropping with it. “I have news,” he says slowly, picking the words with care. He sees the happy light in Richie’s eyes flicker, concerned. “I’m going to… My mother,” Eddie tries, before getting cut off with a gut wrenching sob. 

Richie’s expression slips completely, eyebrows furrowed in concern and hands fluttering up to touch at Eddie’s shoulders, his hands, his elbows, his cheeks, like he doesn’t know where to land them. “Eds? What’s going on?” He asks, bringing them eye to eye, dipping his head that little bit to make up for their height difference, big blue eyes staring right into Eddie’s, swimming with worry. 

Eddie typically isn’t in the habit of crying in front of his friends, it’s a vulnerability he prefers to keep confined to the four walls of his bedroom where no one can see him, so it’s unsurprising that Richie is so concerned by the red faced sobs Eddie is letting out. 

“Hey, Eddie, you’re going to be okay,” Richie says assuredly, his hands skimming up and down Eddie’s arms. Eddie melts into the touch, tremors still shaking his body with every sob. Richie keeps repeating, “you’re gonna be okay,” softly, until Eddie has gathered himself enough to speak. Eddie loves him so much he can feel it spilling out of himself with every sharp breath. 

“I’m moving,” he manages to force out between shaking sobs. Richie’s expression shatters, horror overtaking his face like a tidal wave. He imagines if he were to take a knife and bury it deep into Richie’s stomach, this is how he would look. 

“No,” he says, like it was punched out of him. “Please tell me you’re not?” Richie begs. “Tell me this is just the cruelest prank on me you’ve ever played?” His voice is steady, but his eyes are pleading and desperate. His grip on Eddie’s arms like a vice, as if he’s hoping if he holds tight enough Eddie will never leave his side. 

Another sob claws its way out of Eddie’s throat. “No. I’m actually moving, Ma says it will be good for my- for my health,” he says wetly. 

Richie squeezes his eyes shut, his breath shuddering, slow rolling tears trickle down his cheeks. His eyes are red as they stare at Eddie, lip wobbling as he struggles to fight the emotions. It breaks Eddie’s heart to see him like this, and to know there’s nothing he can do to help. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” Richie whispers, words trembling around his tears. His grip around Eddie’s arms loosens, instead pulling Eddie to his chest in a hug, hands resting on Eddie’s shoulder blades and his cheek pressed to the crown of Eddie’s hair. 

_You’ll never lose me_ , Eddie wants to say, but it’s not true. They’ve both already lost Bev, Ben and Bill, they know no matter what they want, what they do, leaving Derry means leaving your memories behind. Precious moments living only with the remaining Losers. They had to watch as Ben lost Bev, they _know_ that soulmates or not, the amnesia is unforgiving. 

“I don’t want to forget you,” Eddie whispers back, his words brushing against the warm skin of Richie’s neck. He twists Richie’s overshirt into his fists, holding him tightly, pretending for a moment that if he holds him strongly enough he will never lose him. 

Silence washes over them, broken by hiccuping snivels and whimpers. Eddie breathes in the warmness of Richie, presses his nose against his collarbone and commits every part of him to memory. The filled out strength of his wiry muscles, the tinge of cigarette smoke under the clean scent of aftershave, how he emits heat like a furnace. 

“Eds?” Richie’s voice punctures the silence. “I need- I need you to know that… I need to tell you that I-”

“-No,” Eddie cuts him off, pulling backwards slightly in their embrace so they’re nose to nose. Richie’s chin is trembling and his eyes are red and puffy from tears, and Eddie loves him so much he could collapse under it. Richie’s sentence goes unfinished, his _I love you_ hanging between them like Damocles’ sword. 

“I know okay? Me too. So much. More than anything,” Eddie says. He runs the pad of his thumb along Richie’s jaw lovingly, memorising the feeling of his skin under his fingers. Filing away the way Richie’s eyes flutter closed and he leans his cheek into Eddie’s palm without hesitation. 

“But please,” Eddie’s voice catches on a sob. “Don’t say it now. Not when I’ll forget.” 

Richie nods shakily. “Okay Eds.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, his voice shakes, desperate love and sorrow heavy in his words. Richie laughs wetly at the familiar back and forth, the happy sound shattering after only a few seconds. Eddie smiles at him through his own tears, for the first time not trying at all to withhold his love for the boy in front of him. 

He gingerly moves Richie’s glasses into his hair, pressing onto his toes to press a lingering kiss to Richie’s cheek, just under his eye. Richie’s soft gasp thrums through him, reverberating from his shoulder blades to his toes. He kisses down the tear tracks on Richie’s right cheek, lips barely brushing the soft skin but solid enough to be real, and raw. He leaves peppered, gentle kisses along Richie’s jaw, the point of his chin, the tip of his nose. He smiles against the softness of his cheek when Richie laughs at the sensation, breathless and dizzy with affection. 

“Please don’t leave?” Richie begs, voice barely louder than a whisper. Not loud enough to pop the bubble they have made for themselves. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears forming there from falling. 

“I have to Rich, it’s not up to me,” he replies, matching Richie’s soft tone. When he opens his eyes Richie is already staring at him, eyes molten and pouring with affection and misery. The gaze is enough to make Eddie want to cleave his own heart out, just to give it to Richie. 

“But if it was? If it was up to you?” Richie asks. He says it tentatively, eyes darting away from Eddie to stare at the far wall. Insecure. 

With a frown Eddie pulls backwards slightly to grab Richie’s hand, placing it against his heart. Thumping and pounding out of his chest just from being so close to Richie. “If it was up to me, we’d never be apart,” he answers honestly. 

Richie laces their fingers together, Eddie’s left hand with Richie’s right. Their red string tangled between their fingers. 

“I won’t say it,” Richie promises, “but know it’s true. So much.” He brings their hands to his lips to kiss the red bow sitting on Eddie’s smallest finger. Eddie’s breath hitches at the sensation, coming out in hard gasps. 

“Me too,” Eddie says back. 

~-~-~

There should be something relieving about the stars smattered across the night sky. Usually Richie finds the twinkling lights a comfort, but tonight he feels pressed raw. Flayed open and vulnerable. He presses his head back into the hard ridges of the back of Mike’s truck. The night sky is spread out like a dark blanket above them, pressing down on Richie, it’s weight pushing him into the hard metal of the trunk. 

“When are you going to get out of Derry?” Richie asks, breaking the silence between them. He appreciates that Mike has waited patiently, content with the quiet for as long as Richie needed it. 

“I don’t think I’m going to,” Mike answers honestly. His hands folded behind his head and eyes trained on the sky. “Someone has to stay and look out for this place.” 

“Fuck that,” Richie says bitterly. He sits up so he can look at Mike properly, whose eyes flick to meet his but otherwise doesn’t move. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation, but previously they’ve danced around it, never addressed it fully. “You don’t owe Derry shit. What’s this town ever done for you? For us? All we got was some trauma, a bunch of bigoted dickheads and a psycho killer clown!” 

“No,” Mike interrupts, unbothered by Richie’s outburst. “We got each other.” 

That shuts Richie right up. His jaw clicks shut and he lets himself sink back against the trunk, taking in the stars again. He lets them slip into silence again, as he tries to think of a response that even somewhat sums up the emotions flowing through him. 

“We made a promise, an oath, if none of us are here, and something happens… I can’t risk that.” 

Richie sits with the words, staring at the thin scar that cuts across his palm, the one that matches all six Losers. A blood oath, a solemn promise they made only days after the fight with IT. If he squeezes his eyes shut he can still feel the sting of the glass shard slicing across his palm, he can still remember the firm but affectionate way Bill’s bright blue eyes had held each of theirs as he moved around the circle. It feels almost ridiculous, that Mike should have to give up his freedom for a silly promise he made at only thirteen years old, but Richie knows it’s more than just a silly promise to all of them, it was more than that when they made it, and it still is now. 

“I just don’t want you to be alone,” Richie says finally. 

Mike doesn’t answer for a few beats, long enough for Richie to turn his head and try to make out his expression in the darkness. “I’m going to miss you, I can’t pretend it’s going to be easy,” he answers, not bothering to sugarcoat it. 

Richie nods, it hurts like someone has lodged a knife into his heart, but he’s grateful that Mike isn’t sparing him the truth. He wouldn’t believe him if he did. He knows how much it hurts to be without the other Losers, to remember when they’ve moved on. There are shattered pieces of his heart, scattered around the country, living out their lives completely unaware they had taken parts of him with them. Bill and Bev, years have passed since they left but their absence is still heavy in Richie’s chest. Ben, gone long enough now that Richie no longer tries to turn to him for a supportive ear, no longer raises his hand for an expected high five when no one else laughs at his joke. Stan only left recently, just after they graduated, and taken with him a huge piece of Richie that he’s been struggling to cope without, but at the same time, is managing because it’s only been a week. A week is short enough that he can pretend he’s just forgotten to call, and by tomorrow won’t even remember it was a painful thing he had to deal with. 

And Eddie. _Eddie._ No amount of time could help Richie deal with that. A year has come and gone and yet every time Richie looks down at his right hand and the string stretching off into the distance he feels the wound opened fresh again. Every time he leans to his side and is met with empty air, when he goes to tease Eddie about some crude joke he’s thought of; no one there to flip him off, to scream his ear off, to tackle him to the ground and make him laugh until inhaling is impossible. Every time, salt water cascades over him, pouring into the gaping hole in his heart and burns him from the inside out. 

“Hey come on, this is exciting!” Mike says, pulling him out of his reverie. “You’re finally getting out of this town!” He’s clearly forcing the cheeriness of his tone, but it makes Richie smile a little anyway. “It’s what you’ve always dreamed of.” He grins as Mike nudges their shoulders together, faces still upturned to the sky. He’s going to miss him so much. Except… he’s not, is he? He’s going to forget him. That thought is terrifying. A hitching sob forces its way out of his throat and he’s too late to swallow it down. 

“Rich?” Mike says worriedly, propping himself up on one arm so they’re looking at each other. Richie hurriedly throws his hands over his face, glasses shoved into his hair and heels of his hands pressing against the hot tears building in the corners of his eyes. 

“I don’t want to forget,” he chokes out. His voice is warped with tears and raw desperation to hold the emotion back. “I don’t want to not know how much I loved you guys.” He pushes himself into a sitting position and hunches in on himself as the tears drip off his chin. 

“Hey, no,” Mike shushes him gently, running a hand up and down Richie’s spine. “You’ll always know you love us,” he says. 

Richie shakes his head roughly, gasping and heaving to get air into his lungs. “I won’t though, I’m going to forget you.” 

“No matter what,” Mike says, pushing closer so they’re pressed together. His body is warm and solid, a reassuring presence at Richie’s side. “You’ll never really forget us.” 

Richie pretends he doesn’t hear the way his voice cracks, trying to hold back tears himself. “Not really.” 

Richie wraps his fist tightly around the string tied to him, and somewhere, to Eddie. 

He had called him once, just the once. It was stupid, and he knew it was no use, but he’d had to try. Eddie had answered on the fourth ring, perfectly mannered and clipped as he always answered the phone. 

“Kaspbrak residence, Eddie speaking.” 

Richie had felt a deep longing pulling at his heartstrings, he’d missed his voice so much. “Hey Eds, it’s Richie,” he’d said, voice painfully choked with emotion, the words scratching at his throat. 

Eddie had paused, long enough that Richie had considered maybe he did remember him. “Richie?” He’d asked, like he was considering if the name was familiar. Richie’s had felt his heart hit his feet, his throat tightening. “Sorry, were you looking for my mother? Sonia Kaspbrak?” 

“No,” Richie had managed, the coil of the phone cord so tight around his fingers he was sure he was cutting off the circulation. 

“Oh,” Eddie had paused again, then said, “Sorry, I don’t think I know you.” 

Richie had managed to choke out an apology and had hung up the phone without another word, teeth clenched so hard on his lip that it had drawn blood, fending off his tears until he made it to his room and then crying so hard he’d felt like he might black out. 

That day he had thought to himself, remembering when the rest had forgotten was the worst pain imaginable. Now, as his heart squeezes tight in his chest at the idea of doing the same thing to Mike. Of never being able to picture Bev’s too loud laugh, Bill’s soft eyes, Stan’s gentle hands, Ben’s tight hugs.

Eddie.

His dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes and angry scowl and sharp slicing hands. The way his hard fists would pummel into Richie’s arm when he told a stupid joke. How he would wrinkle his nose if any of the Losers made an unsavoury joke, but would grin smugly whenever he managed to get there first. The soft brush of his lips against Richie’s cheeks when no one was watching, melting Richie from head to toe. To forget any of that, sounds like hell on Earth. 

It’s so hard to remember, to know that they had each other, they were best friends, and now they don’t know. It’s horrible, but the idea of forgetting seems a thousand times worse. To never know what he had, who he loved. 

He pulls Mike into a tight hug, tucking his face into his shoulder, Mike’s arms secure and strong around him. “Just know,” he says, muffled into the fabric of Mike’s shirt. “Please, remember, I miss you, and I love you. Even if I won’t know it, it’s true,” he promises. He can feel the moment Mike finally breaks, his shoulders shaking as he cries, fat wet tears dripping onto Richie’s top.

They sit together wrapped up in each other until their shaking shoulders go still and the shoulders of their shirts are soaked through with tears. Then they sit together some more. Richie lets all the tightly wound emotions in him slowly drain out of him, relaxing into Mike’s hold and feeling him do the same. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he croaks, mouth dry as a desert. 

Mike pulls away from the hug so they are looking each other in the eyes, close enough that even with Richie’s glasses shoved somewhere amongst his curls he can see him reasonably clearly. Richie pulls them over his eyes anyway, committing one of his best friends’ faces to memory as best as he can, even though he knows it won’t be any use when tomorrow comes. 

“It’s not goodbye Rich,” Mike assures him, voice serious and hard. “It’s not goodbye, it’s see you soon.” Richie tries to agree but just makes a choking distressed noise. Mike continues, “I’m going to see you, and Bev, and Ben, and Stan and Bill and Eddie again. Soon.” 

“Okay Mikey,” Richie manages, tugging Mike into another hug. 

“I’ll see you soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowee !!! 
> 
> i can't believe this is finally out there in the world !! this fic honestly means so much to me, it's been such a passion project and i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it
> 
> i cannot thank my beta [almondblossoms](https://twitter.com/aImondbIossoms) enough, she honestly is what made this whole thing possible 
> 
> tw // emotionally abusive marriage, violence, homophobia, panic attack, general warning for the clown, it seems like eddie's gonna die but he doesn't i promise

Eddie doesn’t love his wife. 

Which probably makes him a terrible person and an even worse husband but it’s the simple truth. He doesn’t love his wife, but he doesn’t dislike her company, totally. It’s just a complicated relationship. He could love her, he wants to love her. At least, that’s what he’s thinking to himself as he drives to the office of his limousine company. His hands are clammy against the steering wheel, the memory of leaving the house this morning playing on his mind like a broken record. 

“Eddie-bear?” Myra had called out to him from the couch. The familiar nickname made him feel sick, not for the first time he’d considered asking her not to call him that; and not for the last time he didn’t say anything about it. 

“Yes Myra?” He replied, one hand on the front door knob and the other on his work satchel hanging off his shoulder, poised and ready to leave the house. She didn’t reply, she never does. Always waiting for him to come back to her. With a sigh that heaves his shoulders he spun on his heel and made his way back to the lounge. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She asked, voice so sweet it his teeth went numb with it, uncomfortable and scratching his throat, too sickly to digest. She tipped her cheek and tapped it twice, asking for a kiss. Bile rose in Eddie’s throat, although he couldn’t explain why, the simple gesture was enough to make him go cold with terror. He stepped forward and pressed a hard and sharp kiss to her cheek. It only made the discomfort rolling in his stomach that much worse. 

“I love you Eddie,” she said when he turned to walk away without a word, seizing his wrist. Her grip wasn’t tight, but it was unyielding. He wasn’t allowed to leave unless he said it back. An uncomfortable feeling was scratching at the inside of his chest, swimming in his head, he felt dizzy with it, like the world was spinning fast and dangerously out of control. 

“I love you too Myra,” he lied through his teeth. 

He rolls his shoulders to dissipate the scratching discomfort still sitting there. He has to love his wife, he tells himself, because good people love the person they are married to, and Eddie is a good person. He wants more than anything else to be a good person. He flexes his fingers against the steering wheel, opening and closing them slowly. He wants to believe that if he truly didn’t love Myra, he would leave her, because surely he would. After all, they’re not married by soulmate tie, surely he wouldn’t give up his chances of being with his soulmate one day for someone he didn’t love. 

He and Myra met when Eddie was twenty years old, exactly three weeks after his mother died. Everything had been more chaotic in Eddie Kaspbrak’s life than he had ever allowed it to be before, he wasn’t coping with any of it. His mother had always been there, breathing down his neck and looming over him. Making sure he did everything correct, perfect, _safely_ , and chastising and scolding him when he did it wrong. She was an oppressive figure, but a steady one, nothing went wrong when she was with him because she protected him. Without her, Eddie was terrified, and messy. He was arriving at class ten minutes before it was over, he was forgetting books, and forgetting to take his pills, and then panicking when nothing happened when he didn’t take his pills. 

He met Myra at a messy, chaotic and terrifying point in his life, and she was steady. An anchor in the middle of the raging storm that was barraging Eddie from all sides. She was familiar in ways that soothed Eddie’s panic, taking over where he was coming short, protecting him. Everything was clear and predictable with Myra and Eddie liked that, he liked that with her he wasn’t scared, and he was neat, well ordered. She liked that he needed her. 

That hasn’t changed, and Eddie’s almost grateful for that. He understands their dynamic, he doesn’t need to think about it. Life is predictable, easy, their daily schedule neatly lined up like toy soldiers. Every day looks exactly the same. Eddie likes it that way. He does, really. 

The soulmate thing has never really been an issue for them either. Myra’s soulmate died when she was young, which isn’t something she acknowledges. She is determined that the reason for her cut string is so that she could be with Eddie, that it means she wasn’t meant to have a clear soulmate but would have someone she chose to look after. She’s adamant that her cut string is a sign that she should be with Eddie even if he has his own soulmate somewhere, that sometimes Eddie wonders if she knows what a cut string means. He’s never asked, because that would mean potentially upsetting her, or worse yet, her assuming his question means Eddie doesn’t want to be with her. 

_Do you Eddie?_ _Do you want to be with her?_

A niggling voice asks in the back of his mind, it’s always the same voice, not Eddie’s, but someone who knows him better than he knows himself. He ignores the voice and the way he’s white knuckling the wheel, telling himself he does want to be with his wife, of course he does. Regardless of how Eddie actually feels, if Myra caught a hint Eddie seemed like he wanted to leave their marriage she would cry for weeks. Sob about how Eddie has never loved her, never cared about her, wants to break her heart. Eddie winces just at the idea of the conversation. 

It had happened once before, they’d been dating for six years, mostly due to the fact that Eddie couldn’t convince himself to call it off. Now he convinces himself he never wanted to, why would he want to? 

Myra had asked when he was thinking he would propose. Eddie hadn’t been able to give her an answer, staring down at the string on his left hand, his fist curling around it protectively. She followed his gaze. 

“I thought…” she had started to cry almost immediately, her hand always poised on her emotional dial, ready to turn it up from 0 to 100 in seconds flat. “I thought you said you didn’t care about your soulmate. Did you never love me Eddie? Am I just a stand in for when you can meet her?” She wailed, voice warbling and coming out in a loud squeal. 

He had promised her he did love her. _Do you really?_ He didn’t care about his soulmate. _That’s not true is it?_ While feeling a sense of self hatred so thick and all consuming that it clotted in his veins. There was something intrinsically wrong about what he was saying, but he didn’t have a choice. It was easier this way. She still didn’t believe him, wouldn’t calm, distraught past the point of reconciliation. 

He bought a ring and proposed two days later. 

He had hated himself for it, he still hates himself for it now. Not for marrying her - _you don’t regret marrying her, Eddie_ he assured himself - but for doing it to make her stop complaining. She had gone weepy and emotional immediately, overjoyed at being proposed to and immediately forgetting how upset she was with Eddie. It was fast, effective, but it didn’t stop the guilt from following him. The knowledge that deep down he didn’t want to propose, he hadn’t wanted to take that step just yet - _ever, not with her_ \- and the overwhelming regret he felt for rushing that decision. 

He takes a moment as he stops at a red light to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard that it hurts. Taking a deep breath in, holding it there, and then letting it out in a heavy _whoosh_. He’s part way through a half-assed internal monologue of convincing himself that the steady and predictable relationship he and Myra have is something he enjoys when the phone rings. 

Eddie winces at the sound, expecting to see Myra’s name on his car display. He contemplates ignoring the call altogether, he can’t deal with her right now. It’s not safe to answer the phone whilst driving anyway, the statistics that constantly run through his head remind him. 1 in 4 crashes happen due to phone calls whilst on the road. Except, when he glances down it isn’t Myra calling him. It’s a phone number from Derry, Maine. Something about that feels significant, an uncomfortable prickling feeling in the base of his spine, like there’s something about Derry he should know. He answers the phone, finger pressing so harshly against the call display that it bends his knuckle backwards painfully. 

“Hello?” He answers, mostly still focused on the road, eyes glancing left and right as he crosses a busy New York intersection. 

“Eddie?” The voice on the other end asks, his voice is deep and gruff and completely unfamiliar to Eddie, which isn’t surprising since he’s never been to Maine. 

Eddie taps his fingers against the wheel anxiously. “That’s me. Who’s speaking?” 

“Eddie,” the guy says, relieved. “It’s Mike.” 

The name is familiar, but in the way that something you once learnt in history class is familiar. He recognises that he might know the name but has no recollection of where he learnt it or the person it connects to. 

“Mike who?” Eddie asks, pulling to a stop at a red light. He stares at the phone address on his car monitor, trying desperately to wrack his brains for when he last heard of Derry, Maine. 

“Mike Hanlon,” Mine answers. 

The name hits Eddie like a slap across the face. _Mike Hanlon_ he remembers, he grew up with Mike, in Derry. He doesn’t get a chance to adjust to this revelation before Mike is speaking again. 

“You need to come home Eddie, to Derry. We made an oath. Do you remember?” 

The weird thing is, he thinks he might. For the first time in his entire life when Eddie thinks about his childhood he doesn’t come up short with only an empty gap in his mind. He risks a glance down at the thin scar along his palm, he remembers now that he got it in a blood oath. The memories of the event are still hazy, clouded and faded with age and covered in dust from being receded to the far side of Eddie’s mind, but _there_. He can recall the sharp sting of a shard of glass slicing across his palm. Seven friends stood in a circle. His sweaty and blood covered palm warm against another familiar touch, a touch he longs for again now, even without remembering the boy it connected to. 

“Yeah… I remember,” Eddie says reverently, lost in the warm sensation of recalling a friendship he never remembered having. Then he remembers something else, a dark sinister feeling creeps up his spine, leaving sharp pin pricks of discomfort all the way up the crawling skin of his back. His pulse thumps hard and fast in his throat, he can hear his heart beat in his ears. Fear. Finger numbing, stomach lurching, all consuming fear, thrums through his entire body like a tsunami crashing over his head. 

Eddie’s body knocks hard against the side of the car as he t-bones in the intersection, so completely ensnared by fear that he hadn’t paid any attention to his surroundings. He does a scan over his body, wiggling his toes, fingers, letting his head slump into the airbag that inflated into his face. 

“Eddie! Are you okay?” He hears Mike ask, muffled through the airbag but clearly worried. 

He lets out a low groan, shifting in his seat and grateful to find no immediate aches or concerning pain. “Yeah, I’m good,” he answers honestly. 

He hears the slam of a car door opening and closing, the man he’d crashed into. He looks frustrated but not furious, circling his car to check for damage but luckily not seeming injured himself. The surge of adrenaline and fear is easing in Eddie now, the momentary burst of panic giving way to a strange sense of calm, like the eye of a hurricane. 

“Listen Mikey,” Eddie says, rolling his shoulders. “I’ve gotta go deal with this, but I’ll be there. I’ll come to Derry.” 

Mike lets out a deep and heavy sigh, grateful. “Thank you, Eddie. Can you be here by tomorrow? We don’t have a lot of time. I’ll text you the details.” 

Eddie fiddles with his seatbelt, wobbling it undone and opening his car door. 

“Yeah I can do that. I’ll see you then Mike.” 

Mike hangs up without another word, Eddie already out of the car by the time he does it. For a New Yorker the other driver is surprisingly polite and relaxed about the whole situation. He’s happy to have Eddie give his details to pay the reparations and Eddie is so distracted by the hazy memories of his childhood that he’s significantly more polite and less high strung than his usual interactions with strangers. The matter is dealt with in a matter of minutes and Eddie is back in the car and pulling a (very much illegal) u-turn to drive back home instead of to work. 

This is by far the most impulsive thing that Eddie remembers doing. He’s one of those people who go to work rain or shine and considers it a fatal flaw to call in sick when not actually sick. Why would he want to stay home anyway? So, calling in and swindling his way out of work is practically the unthinkable. He spins a half assed story about a family emergency at home in Maine, and no, he’s never mentioned being from rural Maine before but is it really that surprising when you consider everything about him? She’s very accommodating, gives him a week’s leave and offers to add more should he need more time, which is probably more of a testament to him being the owner of the company than her good-hearted nature, but it’s the thought that counts. 

It’s only as he pulls into the driveway that he realises he completely forgot to work out what he would say to Myra. 

Predictably she meets him on the doorstep, a flurry of nervous activity at the sound of his Escalade in the driveway. 

“Eddie!” She practically shouts the second the car door opens, Eddie suppresses the urge to slam the door closed again and just not bring anything with him to Derry. “Eddie! Why are you home? Are you sick?” 

Eddie takes a steadying breath through his nose. “I’m not sick, Myra.” 

“Then why are you home? Did something happen? Eddie-bear is that a dent in your car? Did you get in a car crash?” 

With a well practised gentle tone Eddie tries to calm her, stepping past her into the house. “Yes, I did, but I’m fine, it was very low speed and it’s just a dent.” 

Myra doesn’t seem to hear anything past his admission of being in a car crash, going on a frantic tirade about how he could have any various number of injuries from a mild concussion to internal bleeding. 

“Myra,” Eddie says, growing more frustrated by the second. He walks to their bedroom, her hurried footsteps and rambling following him the whole way there, like an uncomfortable shadow pressed too close on his heels. “I’m fine.” 

He heads straight for the chest of drawers, pulling out boxers and socks and placing them on the bed hurriedly. 

“Eddie-bear what are you doing?” Myra asks, finally snapping out of her nervous rambling and paying attention to Eddie’s actions. 

Eddie braces himself for her reaction, his stomach churning with a fear not dissimilar from what he felt in the car, a churning sick sort of nervousness that starts deep in his belly and chokes at his throat. 

“On my way to work a childhood friend of mine called,” he says, deciding to start the explanation from the very beginning and just hope she listens long enough for him to finish. “He asked me to come back to my hometown, to help with an emergency. I want to go Myra, because… I remembered him. I remembered something from my childhood.” 

Myra makes a sort of choked blubbering noise. “I don’t like it Eddie. Why have you never mentioned him before?” 

Eddie clenches his teeth tight together to avoid screaming. “Myra. You know I’ve never had any memories of my childhood before now.” 

“That’s another thing!” Myra says, her voice pitching so high that Eddie winces. “I’m worried about your memory loss Eddie-bear! What if you have brain damage?” 

Eddie takes a deep breath through his nose, counting to ten slowly as he gathers polos and jackets into his arms and lays them on the bed. “Myra,” he says slowly, with more patience than he is feeling. “We have gotten me checked for brain damage and trauma more times than I can remember. You _know_ all those tests came back completely clear.” 

“I know, I know!” Myra rolls her eyes as if Eddie is the one being unreasonable. “But I _don’t_ know if I like the idea of you going to meet this… this stranger!” 

Eddie lugs his suitcase out and starts laying his clothes in it in neat piles. He takes another slow breath, trying his best to stay reasonable. “Mike isn’t a stranger, he’s a childhood friend.” 

“A childhood friend who you probably haven’t kept in touch with for a reason Eddie!”

Eddie rips trousers and jeans from the chest of drawers with a little too much force, his patience waning by the second. 

“I have amnesia! Even if I had wanted to keep in touch with Mike I wouldn’t have been able to. Until today I didn’t even remember he existed.” 

Myra crosses her arms tight across her chest. “I don’t like your tone Eddie. I think this car crash has flustered you.” 

“You’re the one flustering me,” Eddie retorts. Remembering himself, he pauses to take a steadying breath through his nose and calms his tone back into his usual soft way of speaking to his wife. “I understand you’re concerned for me, but I want to go and meet Mike, and the others. I’m going.” 

“The _others_?” Myra shrieks, her voice raising at least two octaves. “No Eddie, there is no way I’m letting you go!” 

“Letting me?” Eddie tries to cut in incredulously but Myra is lost to another rant. 

“You don’t remember anything about these people! They could be serial killers or prostitutes or insane people! You can’t go Eddie I can’t let you put yourself in danger like that.” 

“Myra-” Eddie tries again, his jaw clicking shut when Myra points a threatening finger at him. 

“You _must_ have a concussion if you’re considering going to meet these people,” she says bordering on concerned, reaching out a clammy hand to press against Eddie’s forehead, he recoils from the touch. 

“I have to do this, I want to see them again. I remember…” he trails off, basking in the warm affection he feels when he thinks of their group of seven, a warm hum in the base of his stomach. “I remember they meant a lot to me,” he finishes. 

Myra huffs angrily. “In that case, I’m coming with you.” 

“No,” Eddie blurts out before he can stop himself. He imagines introducing Myra, his _wife_ , to his friends and the idea makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t want her there. The idea of bringing her tips him off his axis completely. He can’t picture his friends’ faces any more, doesn’t remember their names past Mike, but he knows that they won’t like Myra. 

Myra doesn’t even flinch, she just frowns deeply at him. 

“Then you’re not going.” 

“Myra please,” Eddie begs, looking up at her from packing his bags and levelling her with a desperate pleading stare. “This is really important to me.” 

She stares impassively back at him, unmoving as a cliff. “No Eddie-bear. I don’t feel comfortable with it.” 

“I could have an opportunity to get my memories back,” he says slowly, like he’s telling it to a small child with a tendency to throw tantrums. “This is more important to me than anything I’ve ever asked of you before.” 

Eddie skirts around her and into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and scooping the top row of bottles into his bag; excedrin, tylenol, tums, di-gel tablets, necessary emergency medication. Then the next row, chloraseptic, cepacol, listerine, neosporin, oxy-5 and more. He doesn’t even think about the implications of him essentially clearing out his entire medicine store to bring with him, every movement pure instinct rather than thought through. Bottles of tetracycline rattle as they hit the sides of his suitcase. 

Myra scoffs, stepping towards Eddie. “It’s all about you isn’t it Eddie? You can be so selfish sometimes! Don’t you care about me? You know I get anxious when you leave me.” 

Eddie’s stomach churns. “Of course I care about you, but this is really important-” Myra cuts him off. 

“This is so important to you! So much more important than your _wife_!” Her face is beet red with frustration as she shrieks at him, eyes hard as stone and furious, drilling into the side of Eddie’s head as he continues to pack. 

_Selfish. Selfish. Selfish._

The word bounces around Eddie’s head, battering and bruising his skull from the inside. He feels like he might throw up, his nerves buzzing in his ears like a hive of bees. He tries to reason with her. 

“I understand it’s not something you’re completely comfortable with, but please Myra, I need you to trust me.” 

Eddie waits as her eyes go soft, yielding, as if she’s considering how much this means to Eddie and giving in. He feels hope bloom in his chest like a flower opening its petals to the sun. 

“No,” she says sternly, slashing his hope with the one sharp word. “I can’t trust you Eddie. Either I go with you or you don’t go at all.” 

“I want a divorce.” 

The words are out of his mouth before the thought has even crossed his mind. He hadn’t really been considering it, wasn’t mulling the thought over before it’s out of his lips and sitting heavy in the air between them, but it’s unbelievably freeing. Like saying those four simple words took a heavy weight off his shoulders that has been pushing down on him for years. 

Myra reels back as if he slapped her across the face, gasping choked and horrified. 

“What?” 

Eddie swallows down the fear building up in his throat. “I want a divorce,” he repeats firmly. In the few seconds of silence as Myra processes what he’s saying Eddie spurs himself into action, getting out of the house has become an immediate necessity. He realises with a jolt as he hurries to the dresser to collect his shoes that he was subconsciously already packing his entire wardrobe into the bags. 

“Eddie!” Myra howls as he zips the bags closed and lugs them onto the floor. “Eddie you can’t be serious!” 

He marches purposefully towards the door, not looking her in the eye as he beelines out of the house. “I’m serious. I understand this is probably coming out of nowhere for you, but you have to admit we’re not good for each other-” 

“Not good for each other! You’re perfect for me Eddie, I don’t have a soulmate for _you_. I have done everything for _you_.” 

Eddie’s sweaty hands slip on the front door handle. “I’m not good to you Myra, you deserve someone who wants to be with you, and I-” He hesitates, looking at the red string tied around his finger. It sits side by side with his wedding ring, a taunting reminder that he chose to give up his soulmate for a woman who doesn’t really love him, but controls him. 

“I deserve to be happy,” he says finally and opens the door. 

A hand seizes around his wrist and Eddie’s entire body goes rigid as a statue. Memories crash into him, painful and loud, sensations rather than vivid recollections. His mother, her hand around his wrist, a bruise blooming there for days after, her words heavy in his head like brickwork being laid day after day. 

“Eddie-bear,” Myra says sweetly, and it sounds just like Sonia Kaspbrak, just like his mother. Eddie swallows down bile. “You haven’t thought this through, bear. I think you got hurt in the car crash and now you’re not thinking clearly. How do you think you can be happy without me? You can’t survive alone. You never have. You’re too delicate,” Myra reminds him, her voice condescending and cold, leaving deep gashes down his stomach lining. 

His knees tremble with fear, weak and shaking, threatening to crumble and let him succumb to her demands again, and again, and again. Like he always has. Instead, he tugs his arm free from her grasp. 

“I can, and I will,” he says sternly, any attempt to be gentle with her crumbling away. 

“You _need_ me,” Myra hisses, reaching out her fingers to snag Eddie’s wrist again but he jerks away, throwing his bags into the trunk of the car. “Eddie! Eddie-bear!” She screams shrilly, her voice following him as he walks around the car. 

“I don’t.” 

With those final words Eddie slams the car door closed, shifting the car into drive and pulling out into the street. He can faintly hear Myra still screaming his mother’s nickname at him through the glass panes, strangely reminiscent of a memory sitting just out of reach in his mind. Freeing himself from his mother then as he was from his wife now, but why? Eddie can’t remember. 

He pulls the wedding ring from his finger. 

Freeing himself from it like taking off heavy chains that have been sitting over him for their entire marriage. His soulmate string a happy and warm red against the pale tan line where his ring was, something tight in Eddie’s chest unwinds. 

He’s finally free and for the first time in a long time he can admit, he wants to find them, his soulmate. 

~-~-~

Richie has no idea what he’s doing. 

Not even in his usual way. His daily trudging through life, just doing whatever he’s told he needs to do without a care in the world. Following instructions like a robot, pre-programmed with each step and task coded into his being. Not in his late night crisis way, where he sits in his bathtub fully clothed and regrets every word that spilled out of his mouth on stage. Wondering what he’s doing with his life, and why? 

No. This is an entirely new can of worms. He has no explanation for anything he’s doing. No idea what possessed him to turn his phone on airplane mode two hours before his flight to Derry. He knows when he turns it back on he’ll have voicemail after voicemail from Steve, his manager, screaming bloody murder at him for running out on a show. He doesn’t even know why he’s flying to Derry in the first place. 

It would be easy to blame it all on his impulsive nature, and it’s certainly impulsive. The fact that he booked a flight within twenty minutes of receiving the call from Mike, was impulsive. Puking his guts up, going on stage, forgetting his name and then proceeding to leave halfway through the show. Impulse. 

Richie’s always been that way, acting on his whims as soon as they cross his mind. At least, as far back as he can remember that’s been the case. Admittedly, his memory doesn’t stretch back very far at all, no earlier than his freshman year of college. Every doctor he’s been to throughout his life hasn’t had an explanation for the eighteen years of memory loss, no brain injury, no signs of emotional trauma to attribute it to. It’s as though the memories were never there. 

Maybe that’s why he followed this particular whim so strongly, because he has never remembered a thing about his childhood; until Mike called. He hadn’t been able to recall a single memory in those doctor’s appointments, other than he was sure he’d grown up somewhere in Maine, and he’d definitely _had_ a childhood. Then, Mike’s voice was in his ear, saying that he needs to come home to Derry, _home_. For the first time in Richie’s entire life, he remembers something about his childhood, he remembers that he grew up in Derry, Maine. Flickers of other memories are sitting in the corners of his vision too, dancing with colours and waiting until he is ready to seize hold of them and see them fully. 

Apparently, those flickers were enough to convince Richie to get on a plane. He tries to dig into them now, letting his head lull backwards against the stiff back of the plane seat. The memories aren’t formed enough to see properly, a vague outline of six friends, a foul smell under his nose, his face crunching against gravel, a loud laugh that makes something in Richie thrum happily. 

None of the memories trickling back into his mind are clear, or solid images he can make tangible sense out of, but the emotions are. The joy he feels when he imagines those six friends, whoever they are. The deep, vast amount of love between them is so all-consuming he’s drowning in it. There’s a fear, a bitter, icy and powerful fear like nothing he’s ever felt since. Sorrow. He misses these fragments of friends that he remembers like he would miss a part of his own body, and underneath it all, there’s a resonant feeling of excitement that zips through him like an electric current. 

The excitement doesn’t fade as he leaves the plane. Not as he checks into the Derry Townhouse. Not even as he walks by himself to the restaurant Mike had told them to meet at. It sings in his nerves and makes his footfalls jump and dance with eagerness, no matter his hesitation or social anxieties, he’s fucking excited. ‘The Jade of the Orient’ comes into view, a Chinese restaurant that wasn’t there when they were growing up. He’s starting to remember some details about his childhood now. The arcade he used to while away hours in when none of his friends were available, the Aladdin theatre, the Memorial Park, the streets of Derry are mapping out in his mind. They’re clear enough that he’s sure he could walk the town without getting lost, which is insane to think when he didn’t even remember he’d ever been to Derry before today. 

He reaches the carpark and he’s practically buzzing out of his skin with excitement. 

“Holy shit,” he hears and the bright voice immediately draws his entire attention. Just across the carpark is two people, embracing in a tight hug like they haven't seen each other in decades. The longing and emotion in their touch is so palpable Richie can feel it from as far away as he is. 

Bev, he remembers, as he looks at her fiery red hair peeking out from the man’s strong arms. He can’t recognise the man she is enfolded in the arms of thought. Sandy blonde hair sitting atop a strong and defined yet rounded face. Richie absently thinks that a list of childhood friends to compare this familiar stranger to might be helpful right about now, but his mind is still frustratingly empty of clear memories. 

That is, until the two draw away from their hug, staring into each others’ eyes with a desperation that Richie can’t even pretend to have felt, but then again. That’s not true is it? He can’t place the name, or the face, but he knows with a vivid certainty he has felt the emotion he recognises in Bev and the man’s faces. Love, sorrow, longing. 

They meet in a short but bruising kiss and the final piece clicks into place. Memories dance before Richie’s eyes. A stinging jealousy as two soulmates met before his eyes, laughing with Bev and _Ben_ at the quarry, teasing them about their short pecks on the cheek, Ben’s flushed cheeks. It’s all so familiar to him that he’s almost astounded he ever forgot them. 

“Well you two look amazing,” he says when they draw apart, after giving them a moment to relish in seeing each other again. “What the fuck happened to me?” 

Two sets of eyes turn to look at him, hesitating for a moment before realisation dawns. He recognises it on Ben’s face first, the slight gasp, the ear splitting grin as he reaches forward and tugs Richie into a tight hug. He may have grown to tower over Richie, his soft round features now bulky and strong, a man who Richie can barely recognise, but Ben’s hugs are exactly as Richie remembers them. 

Tight, warm and safe, Ben’s arms envelope him and Richie all but melts into the embrace. It brings back a memory, so vivid Richie can hardly believe only seconds ago he didn’t remember Ben existed. He was fifteen, and had just gotten in a fight with Stan over some mundane issue Richie can’t even recall. Ben had followed him out of the clubhouse, and waited painfully as Richie kicked at the base of trees, muttering angrily under his breath, steam whistling out of his ears. Finally, once Richie had calmed enough, Ben had stepped forward with open arms and pulled Richie into a hug. He was shorter than Richie at the time, so Richie had to stoop to make it work; but his embrace was so comforting that Richie remembers the fight draining from his body. As if Ben had tipped his emotions through a sieve and let it all strain through. 

Hugging Ben again, he feels similar to how he did that day. Like all the frustration at his lost memories, the confusion of why he came here in the first place, drains out of him. He feels safe, and loved, and missed. 

With a thump to Ben’s back and a watery smile he breaks the hug, knowing if he lets it continue he’ll succumb to the emotion bubbling in his chest. 

“Rich,” Bev breathes. She stands on her tiptoes to press a cherry flavoured kiss to his cheek and hug him tightly. She smells like cigarette smoke, laughter under the bleachers and snarky comments whispered under breaths. Another part of him slots in place as they squeeze each other tightly. 

“Hey Miss Marsh,” he whispers into her vibrant hair. Letting out an emotion choked laugh when she makes a sobbing noise and squeezes him tighter. 

They pull apart and Richie sniffs, pressing at the bridge of his nose to force away the tears building. “It’s like you lovebirds have a kink for my tears or something. Jesus.” 

“God I’ve missed you Trashmouth,” Bev replies, patting at his cheek fondly and only making Richie’s watery eyes worse. 

Richie sniffles. “Fuck off, it takes hours to look this good I can’t have puffy eyes for when I see…” he trails off, remembering he doesn’t remember the other Losers’ names. He knows deep down he wasn’t thinking of the general Losers either, but of one blurry distant memory, a boy. He shoves the thought away, instead tucking Ben into a pseudo headlock and marching them towards the door to the Jade of the Orient. “Onwards!” Richie shouts, smiling when Bev laughs loudly and trails after them. 

~-~-~

Seeing Bill and Mike is like someone punctured the heavy bubble of molasses that sat in his lungs and let him finally breathe clean air again. It’s an insane feeling, because Eddie didn’t remember he had ever met them until Mike called, still doesn’t remember them past their names and knowing that the way he loves every member of their friendship group runs deeper than any feeling he’s ever experienced. He can’t remember any of the others, there’s a heavy film over his memories, but he knows he loves them, like he knows his own name. 

“Holy shit,” he says, trailing off from telling the waitress his list of allergies, pretending he doesn’t notice her relieved sigh and how fast she runs away. Bill is shorter than he expected, auburn-blonde hair messy and bags under his eyes viciously present, but still so plainly Bill that it makes Eddie’s heart ache a little. Regret, he realises, regret tugging on his heart strings that he didn’t get to watch his best friend grow up. 

Mike, on the other hand, looks exactly like young Eddie Kaspbrak imagined he would. Tall, strong, wide shoulders offsetting a chiselled jaw and staring at Eddie with those kind eyes that were such a feature of their childhood. 

Bill smiles, surging forward and tugging Eddie into a tight hug. “G-G-God Eddie, I’ve missed you.” Eddie leans into the touch gratefully, squeezing his eyes shut.. It’s been years since someone touched him like this. Hugged him as a physical reminder of their affection. How long has it been since he was last hugged? 

“Mike,” Eddie says when he and Bill pull apart. “How are you?” Mike’s smile turns sad but he reaches forward and squeezes Eddie’s shoulder fondly. 

“Better, now that you guys are here.” 

They get lost in conversation, surface level catching up and talking about what Bill and Eddie have started to remember. Eddie is consumed by the light and joy of being surrounded by his friends again. It’s so consuming that he doesn’t notice his soulmate string go short, doesn’t see three figures enter the room. Not until a loud gong sounds from near the doorway. 

His head snaps over and the floor is pulled out from under his feet. 

_Oh,_ he thinks, as his eyes meet Richie’s. That’s right. 

If he thought seeing Mike and Bill was like a breath of clean air, seeing Richie is like finally knowing himself for the first time. He’s still the same, but different in staggering ways, that make Eddie’s knees go weak just drinking him in for the first time in twenty years. He’s taller now, for one thing, finally having grown into his puppy dog feet and hands, and at least a head taller than Eddie. His shoulders have broadened and his face is scruffed with stubble. Otherwise, he has the same eyes, the same thick framed glasses and messy curls. It’s _his_ Richie looking back at him, eyes scanning over Eddie with a disbelief that matches his own. 

_That’s my best friend_ , Eddie thinks, as Richie starts to smile, the familiarity makes his heart ache. _How could I ever forget my best friend?_

 _That’s the love of my life_ , he thinks as Richie lets out an incredulous laugh and says “I’ve missed you assholes. Welcome back to the Losers Club!” _How could I possibly forget the love of my life?_

The red string between them is stark, an arching connective. 

_That’s my soulmate_. _How could I forget my soulmate?_

“Are you gonna be like this the whole time?” Eddie asks, not voicing anything he just thought out loud. Richie beams, winking at Eddie but not bridging the gap between them, staying on the other side of the room. “Why? You missed my charm Eds?” 

The nickname sends a flood of warmth through Eddie, tingling in his fingertips, electricity crackling in every nerve of Eddie’s body. “Not my name,” he grunts, trying not to smile and failing expertly. 

“Oh my god Mike,” Richie says, finally drawing his eyes away from Eddie, his eyes welling with tears, so Eddie does the same. 

A woman, _Bev_ , Eddie remembers suddenly, is hugging Bill tightly, her eyes squeezed shut and a bright smile stretching her cheeks. Beside them is a man Eddie doesn’t recognise at first, squinting, until the man looks at him and smiles. 

“Ben?” He asks skeptically and Ben’s smile grows, stepping forward to tug Eddie into a short side hug. 

“Yeah man, how are you?” Ben asks. Eddie is struck dumb by the sheer muscle of the man, still soft and large but stronger, more grown into the bulkiness of his body, and as he looks into his eyes he can see the same boy he grew up with. Flashes of memories slowly make their way back to him; sitting in the library, desperately trying to get homework finished, a hammock in a clubhouse. 

“I’m… good,” Eddie says lamely. “Overwhelmed, but really happy,” he tries again. Ben nods, with a knowing smile. 

Ben moves on to greet Bill and Eddie turns to embrace Bev when a hand on his arm stops him. Richie smiles nervously down at him. The small point of contact on Eddie’s arm burns. 

“Hey Eds,” Richie says. 

“Rich,” Eddie responds, more than a little breathlessly. 

Richie opens his arms cautiously, and Eddie hears his deep exhale of relief when Eddie all but melts into them. His embrace is warm, familiar, like Eddie is finally coming home after years, decades, of wandering and never knowing where it was. They pull apart reluctantly, avoiding eye contact and flushes warm on their cheeks. 

Neither of them mention the red cord that hangs between them. 

Eddie couldn’t say why. 

When Stan arrives they’re already seated at the table. 

“I’m not sitting there,” he says as a means of announcing his presence. He has changed the most since they were kids, but even if he hadn’t been the last to arrive Eddie is sure he would have recognised him. Everything from his stance to his cocked eyebrow is so familiar it makes Eddie warm with fondness. 

“Stanley the Manley!” Richie shouts excitedly, diving out of his chair to throw his arms around Stan. He tenses at the impact but Eddie can see his grateful smile, the way his hands flex around Richie’s arms from where they’ve been trapped by his sides. The soft way his eyelids brush closed, relaxed in the love and warmth of the embrace. 

“I’m serious,” Stan says when Richie finally releases him, pointing at the remaining seat between Richie and Eddie. “I’m not sitting there. If you two are anything like when we were kids, I refuse it.” 

Bev lets out a loud laugh. “I’ve missed you so much,” she says reverently, shoving Bill’s shoulder until he switches with Eddie. The change means that no matter where Eddie looks, Richie is always in his line of sight. 

“I’m not sure whether to be offended or not, what do you think, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie asks, after a childish shove to Stan’s shoulder when he takes his seat. 

Eddie scowls to cover the thrill that rushes through him at the teasing pet name. “Don’t call me that,” he says instinctively, pointing his chopsticks threateningly at Richie. He just smiles like the cat that got the cream, propping his chin on his hand and looking directly at Eddie until the attention makes him squirm and he has to look away. Their red string drapes across the table. 

“My point exactly,” Stan mutters under his breath, his smile giving his happiness away. 

It doesn’t take much time at all for chatter to begin flowing freely. The Losers Club relaxes into each other and conversation bounces like they’ve never spent a day apart in their lives, much less decades. The changes are natural, they jump from talking as a large group, to separate dialogues, before easily regrouping again to tease one Loser or learn something about the adults they’ve grown to be. Easy as a flowing river, never once faltering. 

Bill interrupts Eddie’s conversation with Mike with a question, after Eddie slipped up and mentioned Myra. 

“Wait! Eddie d-d-did you find your s-soulmate?” He asks, eyes sparkling with excitement. The Losers perk up in interest. Eddie sees Richie’s head whip around to look at him, because Richie has always had the subtlety of an elephant riding a unicycle. 

Eddie avoids the question. “My wife, well ex-wife,” he hastens to correct, seeing Richie’s crestfallen expression. “She isn’t my soulmate.” 

The reactions from the Losers are mixed, most look appropriately confused, Richie’s acting is surprisingly good to match them. Only Bev smiles sadly at him in understanding, having briefly mentioned an ex-husband earlier. 

“Yeah,” Eddie shrugs, feeling Myra’s tight clutch around his arm like it was burnt into him. “Her soulmate died when she was a baby and she said she didn’t care about my soulmate if I didn’t so…” He gestures loosely to finish the sentence, discomfort stretching his skin tight like a drum. 

Ben frowns in confusion. “You didn’t care about your soulmate?” Eddie has the momentary desire to punch him. He spares a glance at Richie, who looks identical to what he would if Eddie had kicked him in the stomach. 

“I… don’t know,” Eddie admits truthfully, he tries to remember how he had felt when Myra had said that. He remembers it feeling distinctly wrong, but he didn’t have enough energy at the time to bother with why. 

“You w-w-were so enamoured with your soulmate th-though,” Bill frowns like he’s trying to remember something. 

Mike assists him, as confused as the rest of them. “Yeah? Remember that Truth or Dare game?” 

He hadn’t, but now the memory floods back to him. Richie’s bright red cheeks, flustered smiles shared in quick glances, his truthful words about how much Richie meant - means - to him. The rest of the Losers seem to be having a similar trip down memory lane, expressions softened with nostalgia. 

“You said she would be the most beautiful person you’d ever meet,” Bev remembers wistfully. Eddie clamps his teeth and tries desperately to will away the blush flooding his cheeks. “That’s not someone who doesn’t care about his soulmate.”

“You loved Ben,” he gestures at the pair’s intertwined hands. “You forgot that.” 

He feels a stab of guilt as Bev winces at the reminder of what she lost, but thankfully she doesn’t seem too offended with Eddie; they all lost each other. Soulmates or not, the Losers Club were their family. 

“Bev and I forgot _each other_ though,” Ben points out. “Not how much we cared about our soulmates.” She nods in agreement. “Tom, my ex-husband, never asked if I wanted to find my soulmate. He didn’t really ask my permission at all,” she says, but doesn’t expand further. Eddie’s eyes flick to the barely concealed bruises on her wrist and feels a crashing wave of anger slam down on him. He swallows it down and keeps his focus on the conversation at hand. 

“I guess, I forgot how much I cared about my soulmate… how much they meant to me.” 

He pointedly doesn’t look at Richie as he says it, even though every part of him is desperate to see how he’ll react. If any of the Losers notice his pointed avoidance of a specific pronoun they don’t say anything. The conversation moves on easily to the Losers who met their soulmate in the years apart. Stan and Bill happily tell them about their encounters with their soulmate, and the romantic tales of eventually marrying their respective wives, and Eddie is able to let the tension ease from his shoulders once again. 

“I w-w-wish you guys could have been together all this t-time,” Bill says to Bev after a while, reaching around Eddie to lay a hand on her shoulder. 

Bev sighs heavily, looking at Ben with an open tenderness. “Me too, but at least we have now.” 

Mike smiles sadly at them. “I did try to bring you two together,” he tells them, drawing the attention of the entire Losers Club. Eddie can see the exact moment the memory washes over Ben and Bev, their eyes widening. 

“In Chicago!” Bev says, clutching a hand on Ben’s arm. “It was like we’d never met before though,” she remembers. 

Ben nods slowly, it all coming back to him. “I was so excited to meet my soulmate.” He laughs fondly, Eddie can’t help but smile as he watches Ben squeeze Bev’s hand. “But by the next morning…” Ben’s voice turns sad. 

“We didn’t remember it ever happened,” Bev finishes for him. 

Mike nods slowly. “I didn’t want to try again after that, it hurt too much to watch you lose each other a second time. Even if you didn’t know it.” 

Ben leans into Mike’s side, nudging him warmly with his shoulder. “Thank you for trying.” 

Mike shrugs dismissively. “Knowing you two were soulmates, I couldn’t _not_ try.” 

The table lapses back into separate conversations, and Eddie shoots a glance at Richie. They share a meaningful look, Richie pulls a ‘what can you do’ face and Eddie shrugs. They turn back to the conversation at large. 

He’s struck by how easy it is to relax around the Losers, unsure if he’s felt this bone deep joy since he left Derry. He tries to recall a moment he felt this decisively happy, and comes up short. Even on his wedding day there had been a distinct sureness in his bones that he was doing the wrong thing, making a mistake. He remembers looking at the ring on his finger, wrapped tightly beside the happy red bow of his soulmate tie and feeling an aching sense of regret. This is nothing like that. 

With the Losers he is relaxed. He bickers with Richie with such a practised ease that it’s almost impossible to remember that they’ve been apart for two decades. He teases a flustered Ben about his new muscled arms, ribbing Bill about the endings of his books. Every interaction with every one of the Losers is as comfortable as if they never left Derry. Still they have changed, that much is evident. 

Ben sits more confidently now. Stan is more relaxed at the edges. Bill stutters less than he did when they were children, and even reveals that out of Derry he had hardly done so at all. Bev’s changes make his chest ache. She’s less fiery than she had been the last he’d seen her, subdued and exhausted from the weight of her life; but the longer they all laugh together the more he sees sparks of her old self burst through. A teasing nudge to Richie’s side, a sharp bark of laughter, he’s relieved to see her energy is still lying beneath, recovering from decades of dormancy. 

Mike and how he has changed over the years bring a similar reaction, except it’s tinged with the sharp metallic taste of guilt. He takes notice of how instead of being quiet simply to carefully pick his words, now he is soft-spoken and silent unless directly addressed. How his strong shoulders are bowed with the responsibility of being alone in Derry, the weight of the town stooping his posture. His smile has less energy than Eddie remembers, he was always more stoic than the other Losers, but also was easily cajoled into fun with the rest of them. No less of an instigator than Richie at the worst of times, now, he seemed content to just listen to the Losers chatter over each other. At least, Eddie is relieved to notice, his smile while surrounded by the other Losers seems entirely genuine, and only grows stronger as the night wears on. 

Richie is still the same guy in a larger body, and for that Eddie is grateful. He’s clearly matured, and his sense of humour - though as crude as when they were young - is more developed, more refined. He’s just as loud, just as all-consuming, just like when they were young Eddie can’t help but be drawn to him at all times. 

Eventually, after around an hour of mindless and happy chatter, conversation turns to how they reacted when Mike called. The happy energy dims as they all recall a similar visceral reaction to the phone call. Eddie notices Stan shift in discomfort by Richie’s side, one hand clutching his opposite wrist tightly. 

Richie winces at the memory of his reaction. “I vomited up my guts, then forgot my name on stage.” They all shoot him sympathetic glances. “Which is weird right? I mean I feel fine now I feel… good, happy.” 

“I crashed my car,” Eddie follows up, remembering the spike of panic that had surged through him, completely consuming his senses and distracting him enough to t-bone into another car. “I just felt this…” 

“Fear,” Bev supplies. Her hand is curled at the base of her throat, like she can feel a phantom press of the fear there, or something else, the edge of a memory. Eddie feels like there’s a reason for his fear on the tip of his memory, like he has the tail end of a feeling but no ability to recall why. 

“M-Mike, why did we all f-f-feel so afraid?” Bill asks, turning the entire group’s attention to Mike. “D-do you remember something we don’t?” 

Mike takes a deep breath, he looks more weary than he has the entire night. The deep bags under his eyes seem starker, his shoulders heavier. “Leaving Derry, leaving this town, something happens to your memories. The further you go, the more they fade,” he explains. “But I never left. So, yes. I remember everything.” 

“But what do you remember?” Richie demands, always less delicate than the rest of them. 

“Pennywise,” Stan says, eyes unfocused and hazy as he stares at the table. The reaction is like he let off a bomb in the middle of the table. 

“The clown,” Eddie gasps, fingers already reaching for his inhaler. Flashes of memories crash into him like tidal waves on rocks. A leper offering him a pill and a blowjob. Bev suspended in the air. Georgie, sans arm, asking Bill to take him home. A clown, holding scissors and taunting him and Richie. He can hear the others swearing around him, Mike standing on his feet, hands out, like they’re wild animals, trying to placate them. 

“W-w-why are we here Mike?” Bill is asking. 

“I think IT might be back,” Mike says, reaching out a hand to settle Ben who is frantically rubbing at his arms as though to scrub away memories crawling over his skin. “IT is back,” he rectifies. 

“Fuck this,” Richie spits, glaring at nothing in particular. “I don’t want to deal with this.” The Losers all stare at him and go quiet as he huffs, no one had dared to say it. He looks up and meets Eddie’s eyes, he can see the fear there. The memory of what they went through fresh in his mind. 

“What?” He asks when Mike looks at him, vaguely disappointed. “Am I such a dick for not wanting to rehash and repeat the childhood trauma that I _just_ remembered?” He asks, rhetorically, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands around sarcastically. 

Eddie makes an agreeing noise, drawing the attention of the other Losers. “We’re not going anywhere,” he says on behalf of both of them and Richie nods reluctantly, slouching further in his seat. “We don’t have to be happy about this shit though.” 

He turns to Mike, trying not to sound too bitter, it isn’t his fault after all. “I also might have appreciated a heads up, or a foreword at the least.” 

Mike nods slowly. “I didn’t think you would come if I told you,” he says honestly. 

Richie grunts. “I probably wouldn’t have,” he mirrors Mike’s honesty, reaching forward to pluck a fortune cookie from the bowl in the centre of the table. Eddie traces the lines of his frown with his eyes, he wants to hold him, to reassure him it will be alright. Except he doesn’t know that it will. 

Richie opens his fortune cookie, frowning down at the slip of paper. “Typically fucking Derry,” he scoffs, throwing the slip of paper onto the table. “My fortune cookie just says _Hope_.” 

“Mine says _Can_ ,” Ben says, the cookie crumbling in his hands. Eddie’s palms itch with discomfort, nervous energy.

“Your,” Bill reads his strip, taking Richie’s from the table and the one Ben offers him, placing them in a line as the others crumble theirs open. 

Eddie looks down at his strip, which just says the word ‘Let’s’ in a simple unassuming font. He hands the strip to Bill, shuffling around the table to watch over his shoulder as he tries to line them up. 

Mike adds a fortune with the word ‘Cut’ and Stan does the same with ‘It’. 

“Is that _It_ like IT?” Eddie asks, repeating the question a few times as the others shoo him away. “Seriously guys, does it mean _IT_?” Eddie’s heart is thumping against his chest, pounding loud and painfully on the rungs of his ribs, his breaths going short and sharp with every painful beat. The whole situation is too familiar to the way the clown used to fuck with their minds when they were children. Their words cut over each other and overlap, a cacophony of noise where no voice is immediately discernible but all are being heard at once. Bill keeps reshuffling the words, unable to form a coherent sentence but determined to try. 

Ben is the first to realise Bev hasn’t said a word since they opened the cookies. 

“Bev?” He asks softly. It’s barely loud enough to be heard over their shouting but it’s enough to draw the attention of the Losers. She’s sitting bolt upright, breaths coming out in trembling gasps. Slowly, with a shaking hand, she lays out the word ‘Strings’ beside the other slips of paper. 

No one says a word. 

Eddie watches, holding his breath, as Bill adjusts the papers. 

_Let’s Hope Your Strings Can Cut It._

“What the fuck,” Richie is the first to speak. Eddie can feel his fingers tremor against their shared string as he grabs onto it, to check it’s still there. 

“What does that mean?” Stan asks, he’s clutching the air by his right hand tightly. “Mike?” His voice is raspy with fear. Mike shakes his head that he doesn’t know. 

“Are our soulmates in danger?” Ben asks, head whipping around to stare at Bev. Eddie’s eyes snap up from the table to meet Richie’s, his fingers instinctively looping around their string, and holding it tight. 

Bill’s chair screeches as he stands up, Eddie can see him shaking from where he is standing. “I-I-Is the clown going to d-d-d-do something to our s-strings?” He asks. The glint of scissors in the murky lighting of a sewer flashes in Eddie’s mind like an electric shock. 

“Mike?” Stan asks again. Eddie’s heart thunders against his chest, like it’s trying to escape him. 

Mike doesn’t get a chance to answer. They all jolt as the fortune cookies on the table rattle and then explode into a pool of blood that seeps across the table. It’s so hot the paper slips shrivel up and burn in front of their eyes, the words falling to ash and coiling in on themselves, the last paper to burn to ash reading ‘Strings’. 

“Oh my god!” Bev screams, jumping backwards as the blood leaks onto the floor, splashing near her feet. 

Eddie almost trips over a chair leg in his desperation to leave the room. He seizes Richie’s arm and pulls him out after him. Like fuck if he’s leaving him alone with that warning playing on a loop in his mind. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he chants as they run from the room, pausing briefly at the door to pay and regrouping in the car park outside. 

As soon as they’re out of the restaurant they resume yelling over each other. All asking the question of what the fortune cookies meant as if one of them holds the answer. Bev and Ben holding each other by elbows and arms, not quite embracing as opposed to ensuring they’re safe. 

“Fuck this,” Stan growls when no one has an answer. “I’m calling Patty,” he tells them, already pulling out his phone. 

Bill nods, doing the same with his phone. “I-I-I have to ch-check on Au-Audra.” His stutter worsened by the fear. 

Mike turns to Richie and Eddie, the only two not appearing to be caught up in checking on their soulmate. What Mike misses is how Eddie is scanning over Richie for any sign of injury, that Richie’s hand is flexing towards Eddie, aching to hold him tight but terrified of the staring eyes of Derry. 

“I didn’t want to put any of you in danger, or your soulmates, I just…” Mike trails off, his entire body slumped and exhausted. Hunched in on himself like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible, broad shoulders crumpled under layers of guilt.

Eddie opens his mouth, makes an aborted sound, and closes it, lost for what to say. Luckily Richie has always been better at talking than him. 

“Hey man, it’s okay.” At Mike’s disbelieving and incredulous look he rectifies. “I mean it’s not _okay_ , but it’s not your fault. Let’s just go back to the Townhouse, talk it out, make a plan. Yeah?” Richie reaches forward and squeezes Mike’s shoulder affectionately. 

“Okay,” Mike smiles a little, his head is still bowed with shame but Eddie is grateful to notice that the tension does bleed from his muscles at the words. “Thanks Rich.” 

Richie shrugs, kicking at a rock on the road absently. “It’s just the truth, Mikey.” 

Mike nods, a little more sure of himself. “Alright, I’ll meet you at the Townhouse,” he tells them. “I’ve just gotta grab some stuff from my apartment, I didn’t… I was hoping not to overload you at dinner.” He makes an almost amused sound. “Guess IT had other plans.” 

Richie shoves his shoulder lightheartedly, pushing Mike towards his car. He points faux threateningly. “Remember man! Not your fault!” He reminds as Mike walks away. Mike laughs as he walks away, Richie’s words enough to make him feel better in the face of everything he has dealt with. Eddie loves him so much it hurts, he aches with it. Every particle of him is desperately in love with Richie Tozier. 

“Yo Spaghetti-o.” Richie turns to Eddie with a lax smile and a half-hearted finger gun. 

Eddie scowls at him. “Don’t call me that.” 

Richie’s overjoyed smile at Eddie’s well practised response is so bright Eddie has to look away. He turns instead to Stan and Bill, still on their phones, tense muscles slowly easing the more they talk to their soulmates. Ben and Bev are wrapped up in their own world, forehead pressed together and murmuring softly. Eddie wants to hold Richie like that, he _wants_. 

“You got it Eds,” Richie picks up their conversation easily. A smirk appears on his lips when Eddie’s scowl only deepens. “Hey considering the whole killer clown thing, do you mind driving me back to the Townhouse?” Richie scratches at his neck. Eddie is so distracted by the flex of his shoulders and how badly he wants to be held in Richie’s arms that he doesn’t answer the question. “Because I walked here and I’d really rather not walk back in the dark,” Richie continues when it’s evident Eddie is not answering him. 

“Yeah, of course bro,” Eddie blurts out, remembering himself. 

Richie raises a bemused eyebrow at him. “Okay cool, thanks _bro._ ” 

“Fuck off man, it’s been a long night,” Eddie grumbles, leading Richie towards his car. 

They quickly call out to the others to let them know of the plan before getting in the car. Eddie’s fingers hesitate on the ignition, Richie’s presence by his side making his body thrum with nervous energy. The leper, the clown, the fortune cookies’ notes, flash through his mind in quick succession. He slumps back in his chair. 

Eddie thinks of Ben and Bev outside, curled in an embrace. Stan and Bill, calling their soulmates to check on them. Their soulmates, who could be in danger, and yet. He and Richie haven’t talked about it. 

“Hey,” he says softly, breaking the tense silence in the car. 

He didn’t mean for it to be a catalyst, but it’s like a dam breaks between them. “ _Hey_?” Richie laughs, smiling fondly at Eddie. “That’s the best opener you’ve got?” He teases. 

“Fuck you! I just want to talk to you, we haven’t gotten a chance to talk!” Eddie growls, snapping his hand in a karate chop through the air to emphasise his irritation. 

Richie laughs harder, running a hand down his face. “What do you call the restaurant? Telepathic communication?” 

Eddie bristles. “That’s not what I meant you asshole.” 

Richie grins at him, it makes Eddie’s blood run hot, he’s dizzy with it. He’d forgotten how good it feels to have Richie’s eyes on him, his attention on him. As a child he had craved it. He remembers, he understands, why. 

“We haven’t talked about this!” He exclaims, gesturing along the string between them. Richie’s laughter dies, eyes going wide at Eddie’s open acknowledgement of it. “About…” Eddie hesitates, taking in Richie’s sudden tenseness. “About us,” he finishes. 

He waits as Richie lets out a long breath, nerves making it whistle a little with every exhale. 

“I don’t know what we should do Eddie,” Richie says, finally. His eyes shining with unshed tears. Eddie follows his gaze down to Richie’s hand, as he creeps it closer to Eddie’s until their fingers brush. He takes the leap for them both, holding his breath as he slips Richie’s warm hand into his own. Intertwining their fingers and squeezing softly, memorising the smooth lines of Richie’s skin, clinging to his hand like a tether. 

“It doesn’t feel safe, here. I feel like I’m a kid again,” Richie says, so quietly Eddie has to lean in to hear it. 

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks, running his thumb along Richie’s knuckles. A gesture to remind Richie that, no matter what he’s feeling, he’s here. 

Richie huffs a broken sounding laugh, eyes cast outside the window of the car. “I’m scared Eds,” he admits. “Not just of the clown.” They look together out the front window, at the unmistakable streets of Derry surrounding them. Where they grew up together, where they laughed and cried and were pummeled into the ground for looking at each other too longingly. Eddie swallows roughly, his mouth dry and ashen, and nods in understanding. 

“I mean _fuck_ ,” Richie continues when he doesn’t say anything. “Derry’s never been safe, but did you hear about Adrian… Adrian…” Richie trails off unable to recall his surname. 

“Mellon,” Eddie supplies. He remembers reading the article posted about it on his way here, a sense of dread hanging over him like fog. 

Richie sighs heavily, tipping his head back against Eddie’s passenger seat. “Adrian Mellon. It’s fucked up,” he says. Eddie watches his eyes flick down to look at their string. He wonders if Richie read the same article as him, the heartbreaking quotes from Adrian’s soulmate, Don, are a heavy presence in the car. 

“Then there’s the clown,” Richie says with a deprecating, bitter scoff. He gestures dismissively to the restaurant. _Let’s hope your strings can cut it._ “A little too familiar to the… ya know-” Richie mimes his fingers as scissors with an exaggerated grimace. A laugh explodes out of Eddie at the insensitivity towards their shared trauma, Richie levels him an amused look at the loud bark of laughter. 

“It just feels dangerous.” Richie says, once they’ve quietened enough, squeezing Eddie’s hand.

“So, we’ll keep it to ourselves for a bit longer,” Eddie says, making it sound far easier than it feels. 

“What’s another couple of days?” Richie’s words have a forced happy quality to them, but his eyes as they stare at Eddie are sad and longing. 

“I’d wait as long as we need,” Eddie replies, genuinely. He brings Richie’s hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles, letting himself linger there for a moment; savouring the feeling of Richie’s warm skin under his lips, Richie’s sharp inhale at the touch, the yearning in his eyes. 

They’re silent for a few treasured moments, just looking at each other, affectionate smiles mirrored on both of their faces. Eventually Richie breaks it. 

“So, you got married to a woman,” he says, his voice dripping with mocking seriousness. 

“Nope!” Eddie exclaims, louder than necessary, dropping Richie’s hand and turning to the wheel. “Not doing this.” He tries to smother a smile as Richie breaks out into loud guffaws, slapping at Eddie’s arm to distract him from starting the car. 

“Eddie! Eddie wait no c’mon!” 

“Nope!” Eddie is just short of sticking his fingers in his ears and yelling ‘La La La’ when Richie reaches out to grab his cheeks, turning his head so their eyes meet. 

“Eds, Eduardo, Spaghetti, my man.” Richie smiles when Eddie tries to frown at him through squished cheeks. “Can we talk about this?” He asks, surprisingly genuine despite the nicknames. “Soulmate to soulmate?” 

The fight drains out of him. When Richie releases his face he doesn’t try to return to driving, instead he lets his head fall forward with a thunk against the steering wheel. “Okay,” he says, muffled by the wheel against his mouth. 

“Why’d you marry her?” Richie asks. Not demanding, curious, a little saddened and, if Eddie is reading it correctly, jealous. 

Eddie sighs heavily. The phantom itch of Myra’s breath prickles on the back of his neck, her eyes watching him, he curls inward to hide from them. 

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” he replies, slowly lifting his head to meet Richie’s eyes, finding nothing but patience staring back at him. “My mom had just died and Myra was so… familiar,” he chooses not to comment on the way Richie’s eyes darken at that implication. “It was easy to slip into the same habits,” he continues, fiddling absently with their string. A childhood habit he hasn’t been able to drop throughout his lifetime. “Breaking up with her, not proposing, meant admitting there was something wrong with my life. I couldn’t do that.” 

Richie doesn’t say anything for a few dreadful moments. The silence sits over them like a heavy blanket, oppressive and uncomfortable. Then, Richie surges forward, tugging him into an awkward side hug that is obstructed by the centre console, and yet still more warm and safe than Eddie has felt in years, decades. They sit together, tangled in the awkward embrace, for a few minutes that stretch as long as hours, and also pass by in a matter of seconds. All too soon, Richie is leaning away. 

“Were you happy?” He asks, his hands still resting on Eddie’s shoulders, not pulling away completely. 

Eddie stares down at Richie’s chest, avoiding his eyes contact pointedly. “She was just like my mom,” he says, in lieu of a response, but it’s enough of an answer. 

Richie makes a wounded noise and tugs Eddie back into the hug, his soft arms bracketing Eddie’s shoulders, his face pressed into Eddie’s hair. Eddie lets his breath shudder out of him, tucks his face into Richie’s shirt and just breathes in the warm scent of him. Safe. The positioning is no more comfortable than the first time. The hard rubber of the console between them is pushing hard between Eddie’s ribs, and he can barely stretch far enough to wind his arms around Richie’s waist. Even still, Eddie wants to stay here forever. Forget about the clown, forget the childhood trauma sitting at the back of his mind, just stay in Richie’s arms and let it all slip away. 

“Hey Eds?” Richie says, the words muffled by Eddie’s hair. Eddie makes a humming noise of acknowledgement, burrowing further into the embrace to dissuade Richie from letting go. “Do you remember the day you were leaving?” 

Eddie furrows his brow, closing his eyes and working to locate the memory. They’re coming back faster now, only a little prompting and searching required for vivid images to flood back to him. “Yeah,” he says quietly when the memory strikes him. He can see why Richie recalled it now, their positioning almost a mirror to that day. 

“Well,” Richie continues. “Do you remember how you stopped me from saying something?” 

_Richie’s arms were around him. Richie said “I need to tell you that I-” his words buried in Eddie’s hair._

_Eddie said, “No.” He already knew, he knew better than he knew his own name. I love you, he’d thought. I love you. I love you. I love you. And you love me and that will never change. A singular, known truth of the universe. Eddie Kaspbrak loves Richie Tozier. Richie Tozier loves Eddie Kaspbrak._

_“Don’t say it now. Not when I’ll forget.”_

“I remember,” Eddie says, finally pulling away from the hug when his back twinges, his forty years demanding he step away from the uncomfortable position. 

Richie smiles softly at him. “Well, it’s still true.” 

Eddie’s heart pounds a happy tune in his chest, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings. He smiles back just as lovingly, reaching up to stroke a thumb along Richie’s cheekbone. “Yeah, me too.” 

~-~-~

The main thought on Richie’s mind as they sit around their childhood clubhouse is _“Why the fuck did I come back here again?”_

It’s not that he isn’t grateful, coming back to Derry has given him his best friends back, his soulmate back, and ultimately that is a gift worth anything in the world. However, as he comes down from a stellar group bonding hot box experience complete with drug induced hallucination and a weird Ritual of Chud explanation, he’s not sure if these people are smart enough to be worth the likely death he’s walking into. 

“You're kidding?” Richie asks, hopefully. “Please fucking tell me you’re kidding.” 

Mike looks back at him without amusement, an eyebrow raised. As if Richie’s the one speaking utter bullshit. “No, I’m not kidding.” 

Richie watches as Eddie puts his head in his hands, massaging his temples, and thinks _yeah, me too_. “So just to re-establish, double checking I’m getting this right and all. You want us to _split up_?” 

“Yeah, statistically speaking we’re going to do much better in survival scenarios if we’re together as a group,” Eddie says, raising his head from his hands. 

Richie makes a huge exaggerated gesture to Eddie with a nod. “Exactly! Thanks Eds.” 

With a nod Eddie adds, “Besides, we were together that summer. Didn’t we establish the only reason we were able to survive IT’s attacks was because we were together?” 

Mike shakes his head. “We weren’t though, not that whole summer. We fought, remember?” 

A faint memory, Bill’s fist colliding with Richie’s face, hot tears streaming down his face, Stan’s hands pulling him to his feet. Richie shrinks in on himself, remembering his harsh words, Bill’s retorts matching in viciousness. 

“Yeah I remember,” Richie mumbles, looking at Mike to evade meeting Bill’s eyes. “Still, I think it’s a stupid idea to split up now. We remember everything, why can’t we just find these tokens together?” 

Mike stares back at him, unwavering. “Do you remember everything? What happened between you and Bill fighting, and saving Bev?” 

Richie opens his mouth, raring to respond and prove Mike wrong, but he draws a blank. Everything from Stan leading him home in comfortable silence, walking their bikes by their sides, to Bill coming up to him in the arcade, telling him they had to go save Bev, is completely missing. Like someone ripped pages out of the books of his memory. 

“We d-d-don’t remember,” Bill answers for him. Richie finally meets his gaze, their apologies for a fight long since resolved passing through the moment of eye contact. 

Mike nods, leaning back against a post of the clubhouse. “If I’m correct, we all encountered IT at some point in that time apart. That is what you need to find, an artifact that encapsulates you overcoming IT.” 

Bev, Bill and Ben nod immediately, Richie Eddie and Stan stare blankly back at them. 

“How the fuck do you know where to go?” Richie asks bluntly, desperately racking his brains for any idea of where to head and coming back with completely nothing. 

Bill shrugs. “It’s n-n-not that hard,” he says. His expression turns sad as he adds, “If I-I-IT were to attack me s-somewhere significant…” he trails off but the rest of the Losers hear the end of the sentence nonetheless. _It would be where Georgie was taken_. 

The other two nod in agreement, a location clearly in mind. The three of them head off with a farewell, a wish of good luck and a promise to meet everyone at the library later. 

Mike gives Richie a reassuring pat on the back. “I think it would be somewhere you would go without the rest of us, somewhere that meant a lot to you as a kid.” He leaves after the others, leaving the three remaining Losers to stand and wait for a stroke of genius to hit. 

Lights flash in the back of Richie’s mind, the brightness of them irreconcilable with any other location. The arcade. Just the thought of going back there makes Richie’s heart race, hammering against his throat, even though he can’t remember what happened. 

“I’ve got to go to the arcade,” he says, breaking the tense silence resting between the three of them. He watches Eddie, his shoulders bunched by his ears and breaths whistling out through his nose, he can pinpoint the moment he remembers something. His eyes squeeze shut for a few seconds too long to be a blink and he swallows a deep gulp of air. 

“Yeah, I’ve got to go to the pharmacy,” Eddie says, opening his eyes to meet Richie’s. “We can walk to town together?” 

Stan sighs. “I think I have to go to the Synagogue,” he says, slowly, like he’s hoping a different memory will resurface and prove him wrong. Richie and Eddie wait patiently and when nothing changes Stan makes a grunting noise, pinches the bridge of his nose and shrugs. “I’ll walk with you guys too, if that’s okay?” 

Richie forces a wild grin, shoving down the crawling fear on the back of his neck, and tries to bring some levity to the situation. “Of course it’s okay Staniel!” He throws an arm over Stan’s shoulders and pulls them into motion. His force smile becomes genuine as Stan tries and fails not to give away how much he likes the affection, just like he did when they were kids. “Any excuse to spend time with my best friend.” 

Eddie gasps, speeding up the few paces so he’s walking on Richie’s other side. “What the fuck does that make me, numbnuts?” 

Richie pretends to think on it, tapping at his chin and suppressing his laughter as Stan looks at him knowingly, predicting the joke before it even comes. “My stepson duh,” Richie teases, hip-checking Eddie as they walk. “Or do you not remember Sonia and my torrid love affair, throwing our strings to the wind just to be together?” 

Eddie makes a disgusted noise. “You’re revolting.” 

“Oh Mrs K,” Richie moans. “I remember how she used to let me have my way with her.” He pretends to swoon into Stan’s side, laughing when Eddie immediately fires up like a grenade and Stan shoves him off. 

“What the fuck ! That’s disgusting!” 

“Nothing about our love could ever be disgusting,” Richie cries. “Why just last night I paid her a visit to rekindle our long lost love.” He fans at his face and whistles lewdly. 

“She’s been dead for years you asshole!” 

Stan snorts as Richie hums and drops his arm off his shoulder. “Death cannot keep us apart Eddie-kins. One day-” he clenches his fist and presses it to his heart dramatically. “I will see her again.” 

“I hate you so much,” Eddie grumbles, crossing his arms tight across his chest and glaring at Richie from under his thick, furrowed eyebrows. _Cute_ , Richie thinks. 

He cups his hands around his eyes like binoculars, making a beeping noise that steadily grows louder the closer he gets to looking at Eddie until he’s practically shrieking when he finally lands on him. “My bullshit detector tells me you’re _lying_ ,” he sings the last word with a cheeky grin. “You love me Spaghetti just admit it!” He only just manages to duck from Eddie’s attempt to smack him up the back of the head. 

“You two are so annoying,” Stan says, effectively cutting Eddie off from chewing Richie out. His words are snarky, a tone Richie remembers vividly from when they were kids, accompanied by eye rolls and the occasional pillow thrown at Richie’s head. His expression though, is happy and affectionate. Richie can recognise his own joy at being with his family again, the slow return of the good memories that can be attributed to Derry. Of sleepovers and swimming at the quarry and laughing play fights on the dirty floor of a handmade clubhouse, slapping hands and squished cheeks in tight hugs. 

Richie pouts, pretending to take offense to Stan’s words, adjusting his pace so he’s walking backwards, facing both Stan and Eddie. “Aw, you missed us Stanley the Manley.” 

Stan smiles to himself. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” he replies slyly. 

Richie can’t help but mirror the smile as Eddie immediately forgets their bickering to round on Stan. “Come on Stan you definitely missed us.” 

Stan shrugs, his deadpan stare exactly the same as when they were thirteen. “No comment.” 

They continue playfully teasing each other all the way to town. The familiar back and forth of their comments slowly ebbing away the fears of the memories they’re going to dig up, and the creeping sensation of the clown watching them everywhere they go. Richie gratefully shrugs away the heavy thickness on his shoulders at the idea of returning to the arcade, instead replacing it with the light laughter of his friends and the bubbly feeling Eddie’s warm eyes turned on him brings. 

The dark feeling returns with a vengeance when they reach the Synagogue, voices trailing off and returning to uncomfortable silence as they realise it’s time to split up. 

When Richie glances at Stan he sees that he has gone white as a sheet. 

“Hey,” Richie draws Stan’s attention. Laying a hand on his arm. “You gonna be okay?” 

Stan visibly swallows, chest shuddering, but his gaze as he stares down the Synagogue is hard and unwavering. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” 

Eddie touches Stan’s other arm, a softer touch than Richie’s heavy hand but steady. “We’ll see you at the library. I believe in you Stan.” 

Stan nods but doesn’t say anything, walking towards the Synagogue like he’s walking to his grave. Richie expels the idea from his mind. Stan will be fine, they’re all going to be fine. 

He and Eddie make their way along the path, further into town, neither of them saying a word. Eddie’s level pace is a warm presence by Richie’s side, a reassurance under the heavy gaze of Derry, like he was for their entire childhoods. Every couple of steps Eddie’s knuckles graze his own, the knotted ties of their string bumping together, and every time it happens Richie wonders if Eddie is doing it on purpose. He wonders, if maybe Eddie needs the small touches of reassurance as much as Richie does. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Eddie asks, concern edging at his voice as they pull to a stop in front of the arcade. “What if the clown shows up?” Eddie pushes when Richie doesn’t respond. Richie can tell by his tone that he’s already worked himself into a hysteria. He sounds raw and desperate not to leave Richie on his own here, which Richie can sympathise with. He doesn't want to be left alone here and he doesn’t want to watch Eddie walk away to his own little trauma hotspot. 

He doesn’t say that though. Mike said they have to do this alone, and he knows if he asks Eddie won’t leave. Just like if Eddie asked him to come to the pharmacy Richie would leave in an instant, arcade be damned. 

“I’ll be fine Eds,” he assures him, smiling as Eddie scowls at the nickname but doesn’t bother arguing against it. “What’s the clown gonna do if he shows up huh? Challenge me to a round of Streetfighter?” 

Eddie snorts. “We both know you’d lose.” 

“Oh ho ho,” Richie chortles, throwing an arm over Eddie’s shoulder and trying to ruffle his hair. “Someone remembers our games very differently than I do.” 

“If you remember you winning? Then yeah, I guess I do.” Eddie shrugs Richie’s arm off his shoulder, smiling as he does it. 

When Richie stays quiet, eyes flicking nervously to the closed down arcade behind them Eddie speaks up again. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” 

Richie makes a dismissive noise, blinking roughly to disperse the fear clouding at the corners of his vision. “Of course Eds, what’s the worst that can happen?” 

He regrets asking the question the second he steps into the arcade. Memories assault his senses like machine gun fire, fast and harsh, with no regard for him. They start as joyful memories, Bill chewing Richie out through laughter as Richie crushes his character to the ground. Stan complaining in the background about Richie playing favourites when he lets Eddie win. Eddie’s sharp elbows digging between his ribs and hands slapping at his face in attempts to distract him. Going head to head with Bev and actually losing, laughing loud and free when she bolsters about finally defeating the beast. Eddie’s confused shouting from across the arcade about how “I beat Richie all the time it’s not that hard?” 

He smiles at the memories, fading images of him and his friends running through the arcade, laughing at each other, hands and elbows knocking. The smile slips as the crueler memories start to worm through. Playing by himself, the loneliness drilling at his brain as he punches the buttons until his fingers hurt. Hearing the hissing whispers of other kids about him and his friends in the background. About how ‘even Losers couldn’t stand to be around him anymore.’ Him at thirteen desperately trying to force away the memories of the clown’s hand around Eddie’s throat, Eddie’s screams, Bill’s fist snapping his head to the side. The arcade’s chatter, blinking lights and machine beeping not enough to quieten the grating memories in his own mind. 

Then… Connor. Richie closes his eyes tight, squeezing his hands into fists and willing the memory away. He feels an aching sadness for his past self, so desperate for a friend and eager to talk to someone, anyone, that he opened himself to vulnerability. Only to be stabbed in the back. 

_“I didn’t know this town was full of fairies.”_

Richie hadn’t been a stranger to those slurs, still wasn’t a stranger to them, even with the heavy facade of a straight fuck boy stage persona. They were hurled at the stage and jeered when he made mistakes, commented under his tweets whenever he was a little too exposed. Connor’s words stung because they were targeted, accurate like missiles. Henry Bowers didn’t actually know what he was saying, he said it because Richie was skinny, was easy to target, gave off the vibe that something was _wrong_. Connor said it like he noticed, like he was looking between the cracks in Richie’s walls and saw him, for what he really was. 

There’s a deep sorrow in Richie’s chest for his younger self, only thirteen, already deeply consumed by the knowledge that the longing he felt for Eddie was wrong, made him wrong. That he was _dirty_. The thought is a catalyst, Richie flinches away from the onslaught of memories. The clown’s words return to him like a slap across the face. 

“The dirty boy has come home,” a voice laughs, familiar in a way that turns Richie’s stomach. His eyes snap open. The clown is sitting on the old Streetfighter machine with a leering grin, too wide and sharp, swinging his legs gaily and chuckling to himself. Yellow piercing eyes are trained on Richie, pinning him down, scalding and terrifying. Richie’s heart pounds against his chest like it’s trying to escape the confines of his ribcage as he stumbles backwards away from the monster. 

“Did you miss me Richie?” IT asks, widening his eyes in mockery of innocence. “I missed _you_. We used to have so much fun together, do you remember?” The clown cocks it’s head, smile stretching impossibly wider. Richie’s whole body is trembling, muscles wound tight, his breath catching in his throat. 

When Richie doesn’t respond the clown keeps talking. “We can spend so much time together now Richie! I’ve got a party tonight, and _you’re_ the guest of honour.” 

IT tries to hand Richie a slip of paper, chuckling cruelly as Richie trips over his own feet to scramble backwards and away from it. He sees a glimpse of his own face on the paper, a smiling photo of him that could have been taken today. IT sways the paper in front of his face tauntingly, daring him to take it, making cruel mocking noises. 

Richie’s curiosity gets the better of him, reaching his hand out to snatch the paper from IT’s teasing grasp. A memory of Georgie, arm ripped off from the stump flicks across his mind as his hand is within reach of the clown, but nothing happens. The clown just smiles at him eagerly, his cold, yellow eyes dark and murderous as Richie looks down at the paper. 

It’s an obituary, for him, for Richie. His stomach rolls, bile rising in his throat as he stares down at his own smiling face, painfully familiar to seeing his missing poster when he was thirteen. 

_In Loving Memory of Richard Tozier_.

There’s a script on the back but Richie can’t bring himself to read it, he feels sick, a dizzying terror filling his brain like heavy fog as he crumples the paper. The clown is staring at him eagerly, licking its chops like a predator staring at its meal. 

“It’s going to be the event of the year! Don’t worry I’ll make sure your _precious_ Eddie is there,” Pennywise laughs at whatever pained expression Richie makes. His hands are trembling so frantically that the paper is waving in the air, a leaf caught in a hurricane. 

He wants to throw the paper away, to crumple it into a ball and throw it in the clown’s ugly face, but he can’t, he’s frozen in place. There are four paragraphs on the back of the paper, small neat print growing steadily shorter in length with each paragraph. He doesn’t want to read it, but he’s desperate to know what it says. His eyes dart across the words, chest growing tighter and tighter with every sentence. It’s true, every word of it. He feels sick. 

“Everyone’s invited Richie!” The clown sneers, stepping closer to Richie where he’s backed against the Streetfighter machine. IT’s breath is humid and sticky on his face, heavy and growling as it hits him in putrid smelling puffs. 

“They’re going to be so relieved. Especially Eddie, no more strings to tie him down.” Pennywise plucks at the string stretching from Richie to the pharmacy like he’s playing a stringed instrument. 

A raw sob claws its way out of Richie’s throat, his fingernails leaving red cutting indents into the palms of his hands. 

“No,” he says, the word sounding insincere to his own ears. “The Losers would miss me, Eddie would miss me.” 

The clown laughs, full bellied and loud, like the front row of straight white middle aged men at Richie’s latest stand up tour. “They’d finally be free of you, what makes you think they would miss you?” 

Richie shakes his head, desperately, shrinking away as the clown reaches behind it’s back and pulls out stacks of the obituaries, throwing them over Richie like confetti. One by one the paper hits at his face and flutters to the ground. 

“They won’t miss you Richie. They’ll be _relieved_. No more dirty boy ruining their _happy_ family.” IT hisses, laughing gleefully when Richie gasps like he’s been punched in the chest.

Pennywise tosses another pile of obituaries over him with loud, gleeful ringing laughter. 

“You’re invited! You won’t be missed! You’re invited! You won’t be missed!” The clown chants happily, like a toddler at a birthday party. 

Richie shrinks to the floor, terrified sobs rattling his chest as images of his friends toasting happily at his funeral slip into his mind unbidden. The obituaries hit him in the face, stick in his hair before being dislodged by another. They’re raining down like a torrent downpour in the middle of a storm, a blizzard of his face and a curling script of _loving memories_. 

“Richie?” Stan’s voice cuts through the storm. 

Richie looks up, his hands curled over his ears to block the clown out and his eyes hazy with a film of tears. The clown is gone, and instead Stan is standing in the door of the arcade, his hand resting on the handle and his eyes wide with worry. 

Richie opens his mouth, a joke on the tip of his tongue, _“Don’t worry about me Urine, I’m just mourning the loss of my virginity”_ , but all that comes out is a broken sob. 

Stan hurries over to Richie’s side, his foot slipping on one of the thousands of obituaries scattered across the floor. 

“What the fuck,” Richie hears Stan mumble, looking down at the papers. Thousands of ‘ _loving memories_ ’, thousands of people who wouldn’t have ever come to mourn the washed up D-list, useless, good for nothing celebrity that was Richie Wentworth fucking Tozier. 

His hand shoots helplessly out to stop Stan as he plucks an obituary from the floor, careful and precise, exactly as he was as 27 years ago. 

“Don’t read that,” he pleads desperately, his words falling on deaf ears. Stan’s face falls into a frown, the crease between his eyebrows deepening with every sentence his eyes read. Richie watches as they skim once, quickly, then jump back and read it again. 

“None of this is true Richie,” Stan says firmly when he finally looks up, leaving no room for argument. He sits onto the floor beside Richie, shuffling backwards until they’re side by side against the old arcade machines. Richie feels exposed and raw as Stan takes his face in his two warm hands. Stan always ran warm, even after they had been swimming in the quarry for hours, his hands were always like small furnaces to the touch. 

Richie makes a broken laughing sound. “Nah come on Staniel, it’s a little true. I mean I was a pretty ‘awkward-looking child’,” Richie says, pointing to the line with a forced smile. 

Stan isn’t amused, his eyes are hard as he stares back at Richie. 

“No Richie, none of this is true,” he repeats slowly, ensuring the words sink in. Richie manages a shaky nod, still not believing his best friend but knowing that agreement is what Stan wants. He seems to realise the insincerity of Richie’s actions and sighs heavily, shifting so he’s sitting side by side with Richie. 

“Will you read it with me?” Stan asks. 

It’s not what Richie is expecting him to say, he snaps up to meet Stan’s earnest eyes. He waits patiently as Richie flounders, sick at the idea of reading the words again. What if, when Stan reads them for a second time he realises their truth? Richie swallows roughly, his chest painfully tight. 

“Okay,” he forces out, voice cracking weak and vulnerable. 

“Okay,” Stan echoes softly, clearly his throat. “A native of Derry, Maine-” 

“See, there’s some truth!” Richie tries to joke, his jaw snapping shut at the unamused look Stan levels him. 

“‘Richard Tozier suffered through a troubled childhood’,” Stan continues, “‘that was marred by self-doubt and indecision’.” 

Richie sniffles, wiping at his face with the back of hand. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t true Stan, you were there.” 

There’s a pause where Stan seems to consider, then concedes. “Our childhood may have been indecisive and downright traumatic-”

“-That’s not written on the card Staniel.” 

“- _But_ , we’re past it now Rich. We’re stronger, we made it.” 

They sit still for a moment, Stan staring at Richie and waiting for him to respond. Eventually Richie nods, submitting to Stan’s point. 

“‘His countless insecurities led him to ridicule the few friends he had’,” Stan continues reading. “‘An action that would come to haunt him for the remainder of his meaningless life.’ Okay that’s just bullshit, your life isn’t, and will never be meaningless. No I’m serious Richie,” Stan insists when Richie starts to shake his head in protest. “You mean so much to us, we’re a family, lucky seven remember? It’s not the same without any one of us. Besides, you don’t ridicule us, I mean sure you’re a bit of a dick but we love that about you.” 

Richie laughs wetly, leaning his head on Stan’s shoulder as tears trickle their slow descent down his cheeks. 

“You okay?” Stan asks. 

Richie nods but leaves his head resting heavily against Stan. “Yeah, you can keep going.” 

Stan nods, blowing a dark curl out of his eyes so he doesn’t shift Richie and moving closer. It’s reminiscent of the heavy days of their childhood, when memories of what IT put them through were so overwhelming that Richie couldn’t take it anymore. Stan’s door was always open, right until their last week in Derry. They would sit on his bed, Richie’s head on Stan’s shoulder and Stan would read to Richie from whatever bird encyclopedia he was consuming that week. 

“‘Richie was an awkward-looking child’... who the hell wasn’t?” Stan scoffs, his hand dropping onto Richie’s knee and rubbing soothing circles there. “‘and his parents regarded him with both shame and disappointment.’” Stan pauses, Richie watches out of his peripheral vision as his eyebrows furrow into a deep frown. “That’s just _bullshit_. Maggie and Went love you, they always have, ridiculousness and all.” 

Richie shrugs halfheartedly, his shoulder bumping Stan’s from how they’re curled in towards each other. “They always knew I was weird.” 

“So? Being weird doesn’t make you any less loveable.” 

The words clutch at Richie’s heart. They’re warm, fuzzy and tight, easing the heaviness in his chest just slightly. 

Stan returns to reading, sounding no more impressed. “‘Their contempt for him only intensified during Richie’s adolescence’. Still bullshit, they were never contemptful of you, they loved you, they love you.” 

Richie sniffles, opening his mouth to respond, snapping it closed when all that comes out is a broken noise. 

“Only intensified during Richie’s adolescence… when his repulsive inclinations toward homosexuality and deviance emerged.” Stan glances at him, silently asking if Richie wants him to address it or move on. 

Familiar fear grips at his throat, a tight and choking pressure against his windpipe, cold that wracks through his body, dripping down the crevices of his spine and leaving him shivering. He feels so young, curling in on himself and bracing for the impact of a fist against his face and words spat in his face. _They can’t know, he can’t know_ , _no one can know_. 

The temptation to make a joke, to hunch in and away from Stan’s knowing eyes is so potent, so powerful. Deflection sits on the tip of his tongue like a finger on the trigger, but he doesn’t fire. Stan already knows, has always known really, even if Richie never said anything. 

Eddie is the love of his life, his everything, but Stan is his best friend, and has always known him better than anyone. 

He gives him an almost imperceptible nod of permission, eyelashes sticking to his cheeks with tears. 

“You’re not repulsive Richie. There is _nothing_ repulsive about you liking men,” Stan’s voice is hard and firm, but kind around the edges. It resonates with a love that Richie has been longing for and missing, since he was eighteen years old and hugging his best friend tight the day after graduation. 

“There is nothing wrong with you, just because you don’t love who _Derry_ says you should.” 

Tight barely concealed sobs choke Richie’s throat as tears drip off his chin in streams. Stan’s arms circle around him, tight and warm, comforting as Richie lets years of self repulsion sob out of him in painful waves. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Stan keeps whispering, repeating the words in a mantra into Richie’s hair. His chin is pressed painfully against Richie’s skull, and the angle on the floor is so going to fuck up their backs, they’re too old for floor cuddle sessions. 

“Do you want to stop?” Stan asks cautiously when Richie pulls away, sniffling and scrubbing at his cheeks with the heels of his hands. 

He shakes his head roughly, coughing to dislodge the heavy tears in his throat. 

“No, let’s finish this thing,” he says. 

Stan reads. “‘He began performing in the late 1990s, and went on to achieve an unimaginative and forgettable career in stand-up comedy...’” 

“I hate my comedy,” Richie admits quietly. It’s something he’s known for years, but never dared to say out loud. His mom had come to a show once, and her disappointed and confused eyes have haunted Richie for years. “It’s all ghost-written and horrible, racist, misognynistic homophobic shit.” 

“Why don’t you write your own material?” Stan asks, not unkindly, but curious. 

Richie sighs heavily through his nose. “I did start off on my own, small bars and stuff. I don’t know, I thought I was good. Maybe not. I was picked up by a company and they suggested a team of writers to help me… eventually I wasn’t even involved in the writing process anymore.” 

Stan hums in understanding, laying his hand on Richie’s knee. 

“Would you want to write your own stuff?” 

He hesitates, thinking hard about it. He’s never really humoured the idea of starting to write his own material again, just knew he hated the stuff his ghost writers gave him. Insecurity creeps like a heavy fog into his mind whenever he thinks about it, so he’s always just… not. 

“I don’t think I’m good enough,” he says finally, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thinks about it. 

Stan lets out a sharp bark of laughter, loud enough to startle Richie. 

“Bullshit, you’re one of the funniest people I know,” he says, smiling at Richie from the corner of his eyes. 

Richie sits up with a shit eating grin, covering up the tender and sensitive ache of his heart with a teasing nudge to Stan’s side. “Aw Stanley! You _do_ think I’m funny.” 

Stan rolls his eyes, stifling a smile. “Shut up. You better savour that, I’m never admitting it again.” 

“I’m putting it in my self esteem spank bank as we speak Staniel.” Richie mimes as though he’s filing away a document. He grins as Stan lets out a loud bark of laughter, eyes crinkled and warm as he looks at Richie. 

“You’re a dumbass,” Stan says fondly. 

“And a proud one,” Richie answers easily. Emotions still sit thick and heavy behind his eyes and press against his sinuses, but he feels progressively lighter the more he and Stan talk. _God_ he’s missed this so much, having people who know him, and love him anyway. “Alright keep reading this damn obituary,” he prods Stan’s side. 

Stan nods seriously, his cheek hollowed as he chews on it and turns back to the paper. 

“Where were we… okay. ‘Unable to escape his anxieties and incapable of sustaining any real human connection’-” he frowns, “-’he was eventually abandoned by his remaining friends, who never really knew him in the first place.’ If that’s about the Losers I will beat that clown to a fucking pulp.” 

A laugh startles out of Richie at the pure animosity in Stan’s voice. He sounds like he would walk himself to Neibolt right now to clobber the clown with his fists if Richie were to imply he thought the Losers didn’t know him, didn’t love him. The brief reprieve from crying ends as Stan turns to hold Richie in a tight side hug, and snotty tears drip down Richie’s face. 

“I love you Rich, that’s human connection okay?” Stan says, his fingers combing through Richie’s messy hair. 

“You can’t love me, you don’t know me, anymore” Richie gasps, the twenty-seven years without his best friend sitting painfully heavy on his ribcage. 

Stan pulls away from their tangled hug to frown at Richie. “I know you Richie-” 

“-Twenty seven years-” Richie tries to point out but Stan won’t hear it. 

“No, I know you. I knew you as a snotty nosed kid, and a dumbass teenager who talked way too much about the girls he was sleeping with for a gay boy.” Richie chokes a teary laugh and Stan smiles at the sound. “I know you now, and everything in between I’m going to learn once this fucking clown _bullshit_ is over. Okay?” 

Richie sniffles, wiping his snot dripping nose with the back of his hand. 

“Okay Stan the Man,” he says quietly. 

Stan bites the corner of his lip to stop himself from smiling at the nickname. It’s the exact same way he used to do when they were young, and it’s so familiar that it warms Richie from the inside out. “I know you, and I love you.” 

“I love you too man.” Richie knocks his forehead against Stan’s temple as he turns back to the godforsaken obituary. 

“You damn better. You’re my best friend Rich, no amount of time apart will change that,” Stan says, like it’s the easiest admission in the world. He clears his throat. “‘’In the end, his pathetic indecision in life and disgusting sexual urges left him alone’ - not alone - ‘and now everyone knows his dirty secret’ - you’re not dirty? What does that even mean?” 

Richie has to swallow the desperate urge to change the topic, Stan knows, they’ve already spoken about it and he loves Richie no less. “Dirty gay boy,” he explains simply, the clown’s taunts ringing painfully in his ears. 

Stan stares disgusted at the sheet of paper, revolted by the words. “That is just fucking _stupid_ ,” he declares. “There is nothing dirty about you being gay Richie.” 

Richie nods, deep in his gut he knows it’s true. There is nothing that has ever felt dirty about loving Eddie, no, loving him is as pure and perfect as Richie thinks he will ever feel. 

“I know” Richie says hoarsely, forcing down the tears threatening to spill again, stinging his eyes. 

Stan swallows, the sound crackling in his throat, and nods. “‘His death’…” he takes a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut, the first crack in composure where Richie realises how painful this must be, to read about Richie’s death, his best friend’s death, as if it were real. “‘His death is the punchline to the only funny joke he ever made’- Oh god.” Stan cuts off with a sob, covering his mouth with a trembling hand, his other hand firmly wrapped around Richie’s, squeezing so tightly Richie’s fingers are losing circulation. 

“Stan, you don’t have to-” Richie says softly, but Stan cuts him off with a firm shake of his head. 

“‘-the punchline to the only funny joke he ever made: His life.’” Stan manages, his voice as steady as a rowboat in a storm. “‘He is survived by nobody, and will not be missed.’” He finishes. 

“Fuck,” Stan turns onto his knees so he is face to face with Richie, taking his face between his two hands and holding it firmly, keeping them eye to eye. “Rich, you have to know that’s not true. We would be broken without you, and we would miss you so goddamn much.” 

Tears trickle down Richie’s face in rivulets, hot and salty as he stares into Stan’s firm and equally watery hazel eyes. 

“I know, I know,” he tries to reassure Stan. 

“No, _Richie_. I almost didn’t come to fight IT, I was going to take myself off the board. I-I almost… I was so scared, Richie. Then, I remembered you, and the other Losers, and I couldn’t not help. You guys, Patty, you mean everything to me. I can’t lose any of you, but you, you’re my best friend.” 

Richie feels like he’s drowning, he pulls out of Stan’s grip to tug him forward into a tight hug, revelling in the feeling of Stan’s chin digging into his chest. His chest aches at the idea of Stan not coming to Derry, of them never reconnecting, of losing him before even finding him again. 

“I just remembered being alone in the sewer and I was so… I was so scared it would happen again,” Stan admits quietly into Richie’s chest. 

“You’re not alone Stan, never.” 

He can feel Stan’s heavy swallow, his fists clenching tighter into the fabric of Richie’s jacket. 

“Neither are you,” Stan replies. “Please try to remember that?” 

Tears prick at Richie’s eyes as he nods, burying his face into Stan’s dark curls.

~-~-~

Eddie is almost surprised he hadn’t gone into a total state of shock when Bowers attacked. That he hadn’t collapsed inwards and surrendered to the consuming fear coursing through him. The tightening of his lungs, now that the dust has settled and Bowers has escaped out his window, doesn’t come as so much of a shock rather a sense of _‘ah there it is’_. 

It starts progressively, vision clouding until his centre of balance is about as steady as a swinging pendulum, clean air not quite reaching his lungs no matter how deeply he inhales. His fingers fumble clumsily with the zipper to his fanny pack, desperately trying to retrieve the inhaler sitting inside. His hands are shaking too viciously to get a grip on the zip, scratching uselessly at the fabric. He gives up quickly, crumbling inwards and letting himself slide down the wall, breath short and sharp, not taking in enough air to relax his lungs. 

His head lolls forward to rest against his knees, shoulders heaving with the effort to get air in. His breath rattles in his chest, heart drumming painfully against the rungs of his ribs. He’s by himself, in his room. It’s too quiet. Too alone. If he stops breathing completely, he will be alone and no one can save him. He gasps sharply, fumbling again for his inhaler, numb fingers unable to do more than scrabble at the fanny pack. 

_Fuck_ , Eddie thinks, his chest aching with the need to draw a real breath. _I’m really going to survive the fucking leper, twice, not quite killing but trying to kill that clown at thirteen, and Bowers attacking me with a knife in my own shower. Just to die from a fucking asthma attack. Fucking great._

This thought is the exact moment that Eddie remembers with a sharp and startling clarity, that he does not actually have asthma. A fact which does nothing to help his situation. In fact, it indiscriminately makes it so much fucking worse. 

Not having asthma means that Eddie is having a panic attack, and he doesn’t know how to fix a panic attack, he only knows how to fix an asthma attack. 

His chest squeezes painfully tight, cutting off his airflow completely for a few horrifying seconds before his breath stutters out of him in a choking gasp. His vision is swimming as memories of his encounter with IT scrape down the walls of his mind like fingernails on a blackboard. 

IT had lured him into the basement with Richie’s screaming voice, begging Eddie to save him. His voice was raw, terrified, like he was in astounding amounts of pain; and Eddie ran down without a second thought. He’s almost frustrated at how easily IT could trap him, yet if the situation were to repeat he would run down again and again, just to avoid the one in a million chance that Richie really was down there, in danger. He was already keyed up from having to leave Stan and Richie alone to face their memories, so the sound of Richie in danger did nothing but spur on his fears. 

_“Eddie he’s going to kill me Eddie help, Eddie!”_

Eddie’s breath stutters in his chest at the memory, broken with sobs and wheezing gasps. When he had gotten down to the basement, it wasn’t Richie waiting for him. It was his mother, tied to a table and sweating like a pig on a hot summer’s day. She was screaming, loud and ringing in Eddie’s ears, but as soon as she locked eye contact with Eddie she went from terrified shrieking to furious shouting. 

“Look what you’ve done! You left me and now look what happened to me! You knew you weren’t strong enough to be on your own and you left me anyway!” She shrieked, spit flying through the air. “Eddie-bear! Eddie-bear!” She was screaming at him. He wanted to run away, to turn up the stairs and leave the way he’d come, but he was rooted in place, feet cemented to the floor. 

It said something. Wasn’t it telling? That Eddie can’t pinpoint the exact moment when it was no longer his mother screaming at him, but Myra. She was screaming and sobbing, her fingers scratching at the ties tight around her wrists. 

“You left me alone Eddie-bear,” she wailed, tears streaming down her face, her cheeks red and flushed with terror. “You promised, you made a _vow_ that you would love me forever but you never did? Did you? You never loved me Eddie.”

Eddie instinctively shook his head. “I’m gonna get you out of here Myra,” he said, tugging at the constraints. 

“I was just a placeholder until your soulmate came along. Until _he_ came along. You were just with me until you could have _Richie_.” She kept screaming insults and accusations at him as her cheeks hollowed and her eyes went sunken, skin flaking away and weeping with fluid and pus. Eddie scrambled backwards and away as her fat dropped away and left her boney and sick. 

A leper. _The_ leper. 

“Welcome home, Eddie,” IT leered, easily slipping out of the constraints meant for Myra and his mother. It surged forward with it’s mouth gaping wide so Eddie could see the rotting molars at the back of IT’s mouth and laughing. 

Eddie snaps out of his thoughts with a shudder; he can hear Bev talking to him. Her voice sounds a million miles away, like she’s shouting from the other end of an incredibly long tunnel. Eddie is absently aware that she’s probably only just outside his door though she feels distant and muffled. 

“Hey Eddie we’re gonna go meet Mike at the library, do you want to walk with us?” She’s asking. Eddie has to strain to hear the words over his heart pounding in his ears and the echoing sounds of his breathing.

“Bev,” he manages to rasp. Her name scrapes along his throat like chalk on sandpaper, he’s relieved she can even hear it. 

“Eddie? Are you okay?” She asks worriedly through the door, but Eddie can’t speak, can’t answer. He shakes his head roughly even though she can’t see him, gasping as his chest aches for air. “Eddie I’m letting myself in okay sweetie? I’m coming in now.” 

The doorknob turns as she lets herself into the room, speaking softly to him all the while. Or maybe loudly, maybe it’s just his ears, maybe he’s going to die here with muffled ears and lungs that don’t fucking work. 

He hears Bev run across the room and collapse next to him, vision completely shrouded with tears. 

“Eddie, you’re okay sweetie, you’re safe. What can I do to help?” She assures him, her hand slowly reaching out to touch his arm as though afraid he’ll spook. He shudders at the affection but leans into it gratefully to stop her from pulling away. He’s so dizzy. He makes a broken noise, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, breath wheezing out of his lungs painfully. Luckily Bev seems to understand, she reaches for the fanny pack with hurried but gentle movements, retrieving the inhaler and pressing it to Eddie’s lips. 

It shouldn’t help at all, the cold vapour entering his lungs, consisting of nothing more than oxygen and water. It wasn’t the medicine he had always believed it to be, instead just water, but it does help. He’s still sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks and dripping from his chin, but as Bev rubs circles into his shoulder and pumps the vapour into his mouth he can feel his lungs relax. 

“Eddie?” Bev prompts softly as he heaves great gulps of air into his lungs. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat but he’s shaking like all the warmth has been sucked out of the room. 

“She- she said that I- My soulmate - that I’m a bad-,” his words are jumbled and forced through shaky breaths. Bev’s lips move as she talks to him but he can’t hear it over his heart still pounding loud in his ears. Bev’s hand holds his uninjured cheek, careful over the bandage they patched it up with, pressing their foreheads together and taking his hand to place it on her chest so he can feel the slow rhythmic rise and fall. He hears her this time. 

“Follow my breathing okay, Eddie? Just focus on breathing.” 

She breathes deeply for him and he does his best to copy the movement, leaning into her touch with trickling tears paving their paths down his face. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

Her ribs expand and contract slowly, his hand still held in hers rising and falling with each breath. _His hands around Myra’s, the leper’s, neck. Squeezing. It was dying, he was sure of it._

“Eddie, sweetie, breathe,” Bev whispers, drawing him out of the memory. Her thumb rubs back and forth gently across his cheek, keeping him grounded. 

His breaths keep catching at the end of every exhale. _You’re too delicate Eddie-bear, you can’t even breathe on your own._ “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choked with tears. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Bev promises, not once moving from their tightly knitted embrace. She keeps breathing slowly, until eventually, _finally_ , Eddie’s breaths slow enough to match her pace. Her heartbeat is a reassuring, steady pound against his hand. 

_Just a placeholder for Richie, that’s all I was to you._

Eddie pulls away from Bev’s grip, hunching in on himself and pressing his forehead to his knees. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Bev promises, her hand tracing light patterns up Eddie’s spine and down, “but I think you should.” 

Eddie grunts in agreement, squeezing his eyes shut tightly enough that hit hurts as he presses his knees into his sockets. Bev takes the grunt as an invitation to continue the conversation, maybe it was, Eddie’s thoughts are so jumbled he himself isn’t sure what he wants. 

“Do you know what made you start to panic?” She asks, tone soft; gently probing but not forcing anything out of him, nothing like his mother, or Myra, giving him the choice to answer her. Tears prick the corners of his eyes and a gentle warmth overcomes him, comfortable like sitting by the fire on a cold winter’s day. 

“Aside from Bowers stabbing me in the cheek you mean?” He turns his head so he’s looking at her, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t lift his head from his knees. Bev snorts, a surprised burst of laughter at the unexpected brashness towards his stab wound. 

She nudges their shoulders together fondly. “Yes, aside from that. You mentioned something about ‘ _her_ ’saying something?” 

Eddie swallows, his mouth suddenly as dry as a desert. “Yeah, IT appeared to me as my ex-wife,” he says, words cracking. “Well, my ex-wife and my mother I suppose,” he amends, sitting up and tipping his head back against the cool plaster of the wall behind them. He glances at Bev as a dark anger clouds across her eyes as she remembers his mother. He and Bev as kids always shared an understanding of each other, a heavy and knowing glance between friends as the other Losers complained about their parents and they came to realise just how different their own family dynamics were. “Just screaming about how I’m a bad husband and son, a bad-” his breath hitches around a sob, “-a bad person.” 

“Eddie, you’re not a bad person. Nothing IT says about good or bad people has any ground okay? That clown wouldn’t know what a good person was if it kicked him in the head… and you did.” She nudges his shoulder again good humouredly, drawing a laugh out of him despite himself. 

“It wasn’t IT though, just her - Myra’s - words thrown back at me in a different context,” Eddie explains slowly, deliberately avoiding her eyes, instead focusing on the popcorn ceiling, his fingers tracing patterns on the ground. _I wonder how often the staff clean this carpet_ , he ponders. 

“Did…” Bev stops, picking her words carefully. “Did your wife call you a bad person Eddie?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, embarrassed by how choked and emotional it comes out. “I think it was her way of making me stay?” He suggests, ignoring the tears pricking his vision. “I knew I wasn’t a good husband, but she acted like without her I would become a bad person. I didn’t want that, so I stayed.” 

“I’m sure you weren’t a bad husband,” Bev assures him, her hand touching his arm gently. Eddie is distracted for a moment by the softness of her palm and the cool press of her fingertips, the familiarity of her comforting touch. 

He huffs a humourless laugh. “No I was. I didn’t love her. Admittedly, she was a bad wife too. I think she was just afraid of my soulmate, felt threatened by them. She thought I was keeping her around as a ‘placeholder’ for when my soulmate came around.” Bev makes an understanding noise but doesn’t interrupt. “One time I mentioned soulmates around her, just these two who met at my work, and she was angry at me for days. She would just start crying out of nowhere or wouldn’t talk to me for hours, and I didn’t know what I did wrong. So, eventually I asked her and she said I ‘should know’... I _should know_ ,” he pauses, taking a deep shuddering breath, toying with the string on his finger. He’s grateful that Bev doesn’t say anything, just gives him the space to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t know, but eventually I just apologised. I worked it out weeks later when she made some offhand comment.” He finally meets Bev’s eyes, they’re swimming with worry, eyebrows downturned. 

“I don’t know,” Eddie sighs, taking Bev’s offered hand gratefully and threading their fingers together. “Maybe she was right.” 

“No, she wasn’t right,” Bev says, leaving no room for argument. “You wouldn’t do that.” 

“I did divorce her,” Eddie points out. “I divorced her and I do…” he hesitates before remembering Bev doesn’t know who his soulmate is, it’s not a huge admission to her. “I do want to be with my soulmate. I think I’d do anything to be with them.” 

Bev smiles warmly at him, cuddling closer into his side again so they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Eddie. It’s not your fault.” 

He manages a tight smile in response but Myra’s voice hisses in the back of his mind. _She’s lying, she’s lying, you left me Eddie-bear_. He ignores it. Bev continues, “-and your soulmate is going to be one lucky girl when you finally meet.” He smiles genuinely this time, closing his eyes and resting his uninjured cheek against her hair. 

“I don’t know if I can do this Bev,” Eddie says after a long pause, grateful that the words come out clear and clean, if a little teary. She makes a confused noise, gently urging him to explain, pulling back from their hug so they make eye contact. “I’m not brave enough, I wasn’t even brave enough to leave her. I knew she was treating me badly and I still didn’t leave.” His voice breaks on the last word, cracking around the emotions swallowing him whole. He meets Bev’s eyes; her expression is distraught, eyes filled with tears and the tips of her fingers pressed to her lips. 

Eddie backtracks, remembering suddenly everything she’s been through over the last twenty-seven years. “Not that you’re not- Bev I didn’t mean- You’re the bravest person I know.” 

Bev shakes her head, cutting him off. “No I know you didn’t mean it that way, it’s okay sweetie. I understand, I think I understand better than anyone.” She tucks herself back against Eddie’s shoulder, a steady and comforting weight. 

“Myra wasn’t like… she wasn’t-” Eddie can feel himself shaking against her touch, he can’t make himself continue, to even suggest… 

Bev hums, conceding the point slightly. “Maybe not like Tom,” she allows, but her tone suggests she hasn’t finished. 

She takes Eddie’s face in her two hands, shifting so she’s on her knees in front of him. “But, Eddie, there are other ways to hurt someone than physically. You’re not weak for being scared of that.” 

_Weak. Delicate. You need me Eddie-bear._

“You’re so brave,” Bev says soothingly, her kind eyes pinning him in place as her hands keep him steady even though the room is spinning. “IT can’t hurt you if we’re all together.” 

Eddie swallows down a sob building in his chest, tears pricking with grateful tears. For so many years he has never known family and love like this, he had it as a child and now he realises just how much he missed it through his adult years. People who love him, care about him and trust him as a person.

“I love you, Bev,” he whispers, and he hopes the _thank you_ is evident in his words. From her smile it is. She leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Eddie’s forehead. The action is so reminiscent of their childhood it loosens something in Eddie’s chest he didn’t know was tight. Bev was always affectionate, like Richie she showed her love through touch, always eager to peck the Losers on the cheeks or hands or foreheads, proudly letting out all the love she had been told to shove away. 

“I love you too, Eddie.” 

She hoists herself to her feet, reaching out a hand to help Eddie up alongside her. “Come on, let’s go meet the others,” she says easily. 

When they enter Mike’s apartment it’s clear there’s something wrong. Ben is first through the door, and he stops so suddenly that Eddie almost slams his nose into the back of his head. Bev screeches as she looks past his shoulder so Eddie does the same. Bowers is lying face down on the ground, an axe sticking out the back of his head. 

“Oh my God,” he gasps, stomach turning in disgust as he stares at the pool of blood collecting around the dead man. 

“Are you okay?” Ben asks, eyes wide and worried. Mike and Stan seem relatively fine, if a little shaken; but as Eddie scans over Richie for signs of injury, he can see he’s not coping with whatever happened. His glasses are covered in fingerprint smudges, and his hair is wild and everywhere from his fingers running harshly through it. 

“No I’m not okay!” Richie exclaims frantically, tugging at the curls around his ears roughly. “I just fucking killed a guy!” 

Eddie’s eyes snap back to the corpse of Bowers lying on the floor. _Richie did that_ , he thinks, horror creeping into his veins, but also, if he’s honest, a sense of vindication. That easily could have been Eddie lying dead on the floor, at Bowers’ hands, or Mike if he’s reading the situation correctly. So guiltily, deep down, he’s relieved that Bowers didn’t get away with hurting them for nothing. 

“I… was talking to Mike,” Ben admits. 

Eddie rushes over to Richie who is nodding shakily, walking to the other side of the library with a hand over his mouth. 

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie says, slowing to a stop in front of Richie. He’s taken off his glasses to clean them against the dirt covered fabric of his overshirt. “Gross, no, give me those,” Eddie demands, taking the glasses when Richie willingly hands them over. He doesn’t miss the ways Richie’s hands shake like leaves in a hurricane. He works methodically at wiping Richie’s glasses with a clean wipe from his fanny pack, waiting patiently for Richie to be up to speaking. 

“Jesus Christ Eds, I just fucking- I just killed a man,” Richie gasps, dragging a hand down his face. Eddie’s eyes flick up to take him in, his eyes wet with tears, mouth hanging open in revulsion at what he’d done. 

“Bowers hardly counts as a man,” Eddie says with a scoff, recognising that what Richie ultimately needs is light, levity, on the situation. Richie’s breath shudders in what could have been a laugh if he wasn’t so horrified. “I’m serious Eddie,” he says, no trace of humour in his voice. 

Eddie sighs heavily through his nose, handing the now clean glasses back to Richie. “So am I. We’re talking about _Bowers_ , the guy who carved an ‘H’ into Ben’s stomach. Who once stuffed Stan into a locker and left him there for an entire period until we found him. The guy who _literally_ fed you gravel at one point,” he reminds Richie, who squeezes his eyes shut and nods, unfolding the arms of his glasses to put them back on. 

“He would have killed Mike,” Eddie points out. “You didn’t do anything wrong by protecting him. Bowers deserved to die much more than Mike did.” 

Richie takes a deep breath, in through his nose and a heavy exhale through his mouth. “Yeah, okay. You’re right,” Richie agrees and opens his eyes. Eddie watches as Richie takes him in properly for the first time since he arrived. “What the fuck happened to your face?” 

“Oh um,” Eddie starts, cutting off with a sharp inhale as Richie runs his thumb along the underside of the bandage tenderly. “Bowers attacked me in the shower,” he explains, voice strained with how affected he is by Richie’s touch. He gestures to the wound flippantly. “Stabbed me in the cheek.” 

Richie’s eyes darken at Eddie’s words, for a second, looking like he wanted to revive Bowers just to kill him again for daring to hurt Eddie. The expression is barely there for ten seconds before Richie blinks and masks it just as quickly as it came but it’s enough to make Eddie’s stomach pool with heat. 

“You okay?” Richie asks, voice calmer than Eddie expected considering the ferocity in his eyes just moments earlier. His hand is still on Eddie’s face, he’s dizzy with it, he wants it to stay there forever. 

“Yeah,” Eddie smiles, leaning into Richie’s touch. “I’m okay.” 

“Guys,” Mike’s voice interrupts them “We have a problem.” He’s holding his phone tight in his hand, knuckles white. 

Richie’s hand drops from Eddie’s face and he misses the touch immediately. “What? What’s wrong?”

Eddie follows him to where the others are gathered, a corner of the library where Bowers’ body can’t be seen unless you’re trying to look at it. Stan frowns, “Bill has decided to be a fucking idiot-” 

“What’s new?” Richie interrupts. 

“-and is going to fight IT, alone,” Stan plows on, ignoring Richie’s interruption, his arms crossed tight across his chest. 

“He’s doing what?” Eddie demands, head darting between his friends, waiting for one of them to have a reasonable explanation and getting nothing in response. 

Mike looks beyond frustrated, clenching and unclenching his hands as he grabs some sort of satchel they need for the ritual. “We need to be together, the ritual only works if we’re _together_ ,” he’s muttering as he walks. 

“Did he say where he’s going?” Ben asks and Eddie is grateful for his level-headedness when he feels like he wants to yell until the entire library crumbles around him. 

Bev speaks before Mike can, her eyes glazed and terrified. “If he wants to kill Pennywise, there’s only one place he would go.” 

~-~-~

Richie hates the Neibolt house. 

It’s eerily silent as they walk in, every footstep against the creaking floorboards echoing through the empty house. It’s hauntingly familiar to when they encountered it in their childhood, every piece of rotten crumbling wall exactly the same as they left it twenty-seven years ago. Untouched from the torn couch spewing cotton and dust, to the grime covered shelves lining the entryway, to the demolished table and chairs sitting in what once might have been a dining room. Their torches stream outwards with blue light, catching on the walls and bouncing off the musty mirror on the right wall. 

The only difference is dark, hot mucus dripping its way down the stairs and more cobwebs than space to walk. 

“Love what he’s done with the place,” Richie tries to break the tense atmosphere. “The decorations really bring out the wallpaper.” He gestures to a particularly large cobweb that he has to duck to avoid hitting in the face. 

“Beep beep Richie,” Bev says absently, like she isn’t even aware she’s saying it. Her eyes are glazed over with memories from the past, and her voice tremors with fear. Richie glances around at the other Losers and sees similar expressions on every face. 

A sharp tug on his string draws his attention to Eddie. The red cord is twisted in his fist and stark against his pale skin in the light of Richie’s torch. He offers a nervous smile and Richie returns it hesitantly, slowing his pace so they’re walking side by side. He tries desperately not to remember the first time they were here, but now that they’re back all Richie can hear are Eddie’s screams as he clutched his broken arm, sobbing in the clown’s hold, the gut wrenching sound echoing in his ears. 

Eddie was so close to dying that day, Richie remembers running in with Bill, the clown’s teeth bared and sharp around Eddie’s face. Had Richie hesitated before running to Eddie’s screaming voice, he easily could have been devoured by IT. He fights the urge to take Eddie’s hand now. There’s something safe in holding each other, he wants to hold tight to Eddie so he can keep him out of harm’s way like he wasn’t able to do all those years ago. He settles instead for wrapping their string around his hand until the backs of their fists are brushing with every step. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks carefully, glancing at Richie nervously but mostly keeping his eyes ahead, scanning the broken-down building for any signs of danger. 

Richie nods hesitantly, even though he doesn’t particularly believe himself. 

He, Eddie and Stan follow close on Bill’s heels as he makes his way through the decrepit halls. Richie can hear Bev, Ben and Mike trailing not far behind, but that distance between them is just enough that when Ben lets out a guttural howl of pain none of them are fast enough to get back to him before the door slams shut in their face. 

“No!” Bill yells, throwing himself against the door hopelessly. Richie steps back, throwing his head into his hands with a low groan as Eddie slams his fist against the door, trying to pound his way through. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he can hear Stan muttering under his breath, his torch beam wobbling as he trembles. 

“Hey, Staniel, we’re good man, we’re okay,” Richie mumbles, remembering his and Stan’s conversation earlier. He shifts closer to him, laying a reassuring hand on his arm and hoping Stan can’t feel how badly he’s shaking. Behind the two of them Bill and Eddie keep screaming and battering the door, desperately trying to get at out to Ben. 

The fridge rattles, and they all go silent, with the exception of Ben’s muffled shouts still audible from the hallway outside. 

“Fridges aren’t meant to do that,” Eddie squeaks, Richie silently agrees with him but is too distracted by the still shaking fridge to answer. 

Richie stumbles backwards, dragging Stan by the sleeve of his shirt as the hinges of the fridge door squeal open. His stomach drops to his feet. 

Eddie is staring back at him from the inside of the fridge. Not the Eddie standing beside him, not the older, adult, grown up Eddie that Richie is still adjusting to and is just as in love with as his childhood self. No, not that Eddie, but young Eddie. Thirteen year old Eddie, exactly as he had been the first time they entered Neibolt. Freckled cheeked and doe-eyed, his brown hair curling just slightly at his ears from where he always failed to flat iron it properly; wearing a grey t-shirt smattered with blood, leaking out of the gaping chunks torn from his face where a beast had feasted. 

“No,” Richie gasps, he hears his voice distantly, like someone far away said it and not him. 

“What the _fuck_?” Someone gags, Eddie, maybe. Richie isn’t sure what is real anymore, he can feel Bill moving beside him, Stan pulling on his arm but Richie can’t move a muscle. Every sound in the room is muffled and distorted like he is hearing it all from underwater, dulled by the ringing sound in his ears and the hard thump of his heart against his chest. 

“You let me die,” Young Eddie says, voice snotty with tears. “Why did you let me die? Billy? Richie?” His head swivels from side to side, and with every turn it seems to wobble looser and looser until it topples out of the fridge, completely severed from his body. Richie chokes on a sob, his whole body quivering and shaking. There are bleeding and torn bite marks all along the skin of Young Eddie’s chin and neck, up until his neck where the skin, bone and muscle is completely torn apart from being chewed and gorged by IT. 

The string on Richie’s hand is tugging and pulling desperately, like on the other side someone is trying to get his attention but he can’t look away from the bleeding face of his young soulmate. 

“I d-d-d-didn’t,” he hears Bill say from somewhere to his left. Richie’s head jerks in a nod to show he agrees, vision blurred with tears as he looks at Eddie’s torn apart face. 

“You _left_ me,” Young Eddie hisses, grunting in pain as a spider leg forces its way through his cheek, splitting the rotten skin easily and leaving it oozing with sweat and blood. “You left me to _die_.” Young Eddie’s eyes are looking right at Richie as he says it, burning with pain and hatred that slices into Richie’s chest leaving him aching and flayed open. 

“I would never,” Richie chokes out, he can hear someone talking behind him. Stan? Bill? He can’t focus on anything but Eddie’s face, hissing and wailing as more spider legs erupt from his cheeks. 

“Richie,” Eddie whimpers, young and broken, writhing in pain as legs force their way through his torn and bleeding skin. “Richie I’m scared.” 

There’s a moment of deadly silence, suspended in time, where Eddie is staring at Richie, tears in his eyes. Deep down, in the back of his mind, Richie tries to remind himself that this isn’t real. That Eddie is standing just behind him, alive, and healthy. That Richie got there in time and he didn’t die that day, twenty-seven years ago. But as Young Eddie’s face stares at him, pained and terrified, it feels incredibly real. 

The moment is broken when Young Eddie’s face lunges forward, scuttling on spider limbs speeding directly towards Richie, laughing maniacally with razor sharp teeth bared and snapping. Richie can’t move, he needs to move, he can’t move. Young Eddie launches onto him and he collapses backwards, hitting the ground with a painful smack. Eddie scratches and claws at his face. Richie squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of drool and blood gushing over him, splashing into his mouth and nose and covering his glasses in a layer of grime and fluid. He tries to get the creature off him, desperately pushing both hands against Eddie’s bloody slippery cheeks. He can feel two other pairs of hands tugging at Eddie’s head where it is latched onto him, claws digging in so painfully he has to clench down on his tongue not to scream and risk blood getting into his mouth. 

“Eddie g-g-get the knife!” He can hear Bill shouting, it’s muffled by screaming and Young Eddie’s roars and the blood and spit dripping from Young Eddie’s mouth into his ear canals. “The knife Eddie!” 

Young Eddie’s face is so close to Richie’s that their lips are a hair’s breadth apart, his teeth gnashing and spit dripping against Richie’s mouth as he desperately tries not to yell out in fear. 

With a stabbing squelch everything goes blessedly still. Richie whimpers, eyes squeezed shut and tears trickling down the sides of his face as Young Eddie’s spider demonic creature is removed from his face by his friends. He’s trembling with his whole body, coughing and heaving, spitting up blood and drool that managed to drip into his mouth. Everything in the room is completely blocked out by the ringing of activity in his ear drums, the residue of pure chaos still reverberating against his skull. 

“Richie sweetie, lift your head,” he can hear Bev’s voice saying softly and he follows her instruction. He lifts his head with aching and shuddering muscles and lowers it gratefully onto her lap. Her fingers brush the sides of his face as she removes his glasses. Someone is holding his hand, soft, long fingers. Not Eddie but Stan, he squeezes gratefully. 

Bill’s voice commanders the room, yelling angrily. 

“He c-c-could have fucking died man! Don’t you see that?” 

Richie opens his eyes slowly, his vision still clouded with shock and blurry without his glasses but clear enough to make out the scene in front of him. Bill’s hand is fisted in Eddie’s shirt, crowded against the wall where Richie presumes Eddie was for the entire encounter. Bev carefully slips his glasses onto his face so he doesn’t have to move from the floor. 

Bill continues when Eddie doesn’t say anything. “Georgie’s dead, th-the kid’s d-duh-dead. Do you want Richie to die too?” 

Richie watches as Eddie shakes his head roughly but doesn’t say anything. He can see from the floor how overwhelmed and shaken up Eddie is, his eyes glassy with tears, shaking like a leaf. 

“D-do you want R-R-Rich to die too?” Bill shouts again, shaking Eddie’s shirt in his fist. Richie wants to say something, stick up for Eddie, but when he tries to speak he just coughs up more mucus and blood. Stan’s fingers stroke through his sweaty hair reassuringly, pushing his head back onto Bev’s lap gently but forcefully. Richie feels Eddie pull hard on their string, trying to draw Richie’s attention to him as if he isn’t already wholly focused on Eddie.

“No,” Eddie sobs, his eyes darting from Bill to Richie, imploring them both to believe him. “I didn’t want Richie to die.” Eddie’s voice wavers with fear but his words are pointed. “I _don’t_. I was just scared. Please don’t be mad Bill, I was just scared.” 

Richie can’t see Bill’s face from behind him, but he can hear the way his voice goes strained with emotion. “That’s w-w-wuh-what it wants r-right? Don’t give it t-to him.” 

Bill turns around, his expression exhausted and his eyes filled with unshed tears, overwhelmed as the rest of them. Richie scans over him worriedly, before returning his attention to Eddie, who has hunched in on himself with shaking tears in the wake of Bill’s words. In the background Richie can hear Mike scolding Bill for attacking Eddie like that, hissed whispers overlapping with Bill’s apologies but he drowns it out to focus on his soulmate. 

“Eds,” Richie says, his voice coming out scratchy and raw but not causing a coughing fit, so that’s a positive. “Eds I’m okay.” He loops his pinky around their string and pulls as hard as his shock heavy muscles will allow; grateful that it’s enough to get Eddie’s attention on him. 

“I’m so sorry Rich,” Eddie sobs, rushing over to Richie’s side, slotting into place beside Stan and laying a hand on Richie’s hip. “I couldn’t do anything… seeing me attacking you I just-” he breaks off with a shudder. He squeezes his eyes shut to hold back tears as Richie shushes him gently. 

He eases himself into a sitting position, groaning but not feeling any particular pain other than the residual fear shuddering in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says again, meeting Richie’s eyes. His heart seizes at the tears glazing over Eddie’s brown eyes, how broken he looks. 

“No more apologies,” Richie says, rolling his shoulders and easing the crinks in his neck. “Seriously. For every apology I’m going to kick you in the balls, I’ll fucking do it.” 

Eddie laughs wetly, pulling Richie into a short but tight hug. Richie wonders if Bev and Stan can see right through him, how he melts at just a brush of a touch from Eddie, his muscles finally unwinding from being attacked. 

They make their way to the sewers, which are just as disgusting as Richie remembers them. He also remembers, with a smile that he ducks his head to hide, how he used to hide his disgust from Eddie; pretending to be happy, at home even, in the wretched stinking mess of the drains, just to watch Eddie boil with anger and scream at him about how unsanitary the whole situation was. In a similar way to what he’s doing now. 

“Jesus Christ I can’t believe I agreed to this. Do you know how many fucking shots we’re going to need to get after this? There are so many diseases that you can get from sewage water.” Eddie’s arms are tucked tight against his body, hands pushed against his armpits like chicken wings. His nose is screwed up, lip curling, dumb headlight lighting up his forehead like a beacon, Richie wants to kiss him on his stupid mouth until he stops complaining about the dirty water. 

He tries to stifle a giggle with the back of his hand as Eddie rambles something about the risks of Hepatitis, but he’s not quite successful. Eddie’s head whips around to glare at him which only makes Richie laugh harder, finding it impossible to take him seriously with the torch strapped to his head. 

“This isn’t a joke Richie! Exposure to sewage water can cause campylobacteriosis, which can result in a life-threatening infection.” 

Richie muffles another laugh as Stan mumbles in the background, “camp-y-loh-bac-” incredulously. 

“Cam-pyr-loh-” Bev attempts with a giggle, further ahead of Richie, Stan and Eddie but close enough to be following their conversation. 

Eddie huffs, flushed with frustration, but with the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “God you’re all infuriating,” he grunts. 

“Stan!” Richie says solemnly. “I’m worried about Eddie.” 

“How come Richie?” Stan says, easily falling into the role of Richie’s foil as if he never stopped playing the part. 

Richie shakes his head with a mournful sigh. “I’m afraid he’s caught a terrible case of stychinthymurdiosis.” Eddie is staring at him, furrowed eyebrows like he doesn’t _quite_ believe Richie is serious, but also is concerned enough that he isn’t willing to call him out on his bluff just yet. 

“Stychinthymurdiosis!” Stan gasps, too exaggerated to be believable. “What an ailment! How can you tell?” 

“Well…” Richie throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, grinning wolfishly when he glares heatedly in response. “He’s being quite a _stych_ in the _murd_ about the dangers of sewage.” 

The joke dawns on Eddie with an almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. “Oh fuck you!” He scowls, shrugging Richie’s arm off his shoulder. 

“What?” Richie asks teasingly, throwing a hand to his chest. “I would never lie about the dangers of stychinthe- I don’t even remember what I called it.” 

Stan breaks into guffaws of laughter as Eddie goes a gorgeous shade of red in his effort to not chew Richie out. 

Richie keeps watching Eddie as they continue to pick their way through the dirty water of the sewers, enamoured by the way his nose scrunches with every step, the wide eyed and wary way he eyes floating garbage that made its way into the drains. Richie chews on the side of his mouth to distract himself from how in love with him he is. He pinches his wrist to keep himself from taking Eddie into his arms and peppering him with a thousand kisses all over his furrowed eyebrows and downturned lips. 

“Where are we headed, Mikey?” Richie calls instead of acting on those desperate impulses to show Eddie just how much he loves him. Mike turns back to him with a nervous smile, pointing up to a protruding structure just ahead of them. 

They scale up the structure in relative silence, aside from the occasional mutter of “gross” or someone touching something slimy and gagging. 

Mike is the one to break the silence. 

“In the depths is where it crept, in the beneath they find relief,” Mike is muttering to himself, over and over, like a mantra. Richie isn’t sure whether to be deeply disturbed or to have trust in his friend’s antics, so he settles for a tentative mix of both. 

“Is he okay?” Ben asks quietly, looking to the other Losers with worried eyes. 

Richie opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “I think at this point that’s a relative question,” with a decisive nod. 

“What’s on the other side?” Bev asks, shaking a little and her hand held tightly to Ben’s. Richie considers for a moment how nice it would be to do the same with Eddie, and instead digs the crescents of his nails into his palms. 

Mike looks up at her, finally pulled out of his trance like state. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly and Richie has to bite his tongue to keep from swearing. “No one does.” 

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking _kidding_ me,” Stan mutters, taking the words right out of Richie’s mouth. 

Without any further hesitation Mike pulls open the sewer hatch they’re all standing around, not even flinching as the rest of them shout and scramble away. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, more than certain some horrific nightmare is going to claw out of the tunnel to murder them all. 

But nothing happens. 

“Alright,” Mike says, sitting on the edge and dropping his legs in. “See you down there.” 

“Woah woah woah! Mike!” Richie shouts, the other Losers echoing his protests. They rush forward to look down the hole, Richie exhales an audible sigh of relief to see Mike safely perched on the rock face and climbing steadily down. 

“Jesus Christ,” he hears Eddie mumble. 

Bill nods, crouching over the tunnel and pausing before he lowers himself down. “St-stay together.” 

They all nod in agreement, following Bill’s lead without hesitation, just like when they were kids and his word was like gospel. 

Stan is next, stepping forward, his face pinched with nerves. 

“I can’t do this,” Eddie gasps just as Stan drops into the hole. Richie hears him stumbling backwards away from where their friends have just dropped through, feet splashing in the shallow greywater that made its way onto the platform. He turns to meet Eddie’s eyes, terrified and spooked like a wild animal in the glinting light of his headlamp. 

“What are you talking about?” Richie asks, stepping away from the manhole and towards Eddie. He sees Bev and Ben share a concerned glance out of the corner of his eye, unsure whether to follow after Mike, Bill and Stan or to wait for Richie and Eddie. 

“I can’t…” Eddie repeats, shaking his head and taking another fumbling step away from them. “I’m too scared.” 

“We’re all scared Eds, but it’s okay. We’re gonna do this together,” Richie says, careful not to startle Eddie as he moves closer. Eddie doesn’t shift away, which is a positive, but he’s still shaking his head, and rubbing their string between his thumb and forefinger anxiously. 

“No Rich. I’m going to get us all _killed_ if I go down there with you.” Eddie’s breaths are coming out sharp and short, working himself into a panicked frenzy. “You saw what happened up there, I just froze. You could have died! I couldn’t do anything, and you’re…” he trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, his eyes jumping to Ben and Bev. 

Richie opens his mouth to interrupt but Eddie barrels on. 

“I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if anything happened to you. If I’m down there I’m a liability, one of you could get hurt.” Eddie says, and the way he looks at Richie when he says _one of you_ gives the impression that he’s really just worried he’s going to get Richie hurt. Which is stupid, so Richie tells him as much.

“That’s stupid.” He flicks Eddie’s forehead, right between the eyes and just beneath his torch. “You’re not going to freeze up.” 

“I already did!” Eddie yells, his breathing ragged and harsh. “What if something had happened to you Rich? I should have _helped_.” 

Richie takes hold of both Eddie’s arms, leaning down that slightest bit so the two of them are at eye level. “Nothing happened to me,” he reminds Eddie, speaking slowly so the message won’t be lost. “Feel this?” He squeezes Eddie’s upper arms pointedly. “I’m okay… well, alright okay is a relative term. When we get out of here I’m going to find a therapist and you can yell at me about my cholesterol levels and how I haven’t eaten a vegetable all year.” 

“Wait, you haven’t eaten a vegetable all _year_?” Eddie tries to interrupt but Richie cuts him off. 

“Ah bup bup bup.” He raises an eyebrow until Eddie goes quiet with a half-hearted scowl. “Not the point. My point is, I’m okay, and you’re going to be okay.” 

Eddie averts his eyes, chewing on his lip like he can’t decide whether to agree with Richie or to argue, so Richie doesn’t give him the chance. 

“Okay, so you had a moment? You froze up? Fine.” He jostles Eddie by the arms lightly until he looks at Richie again, his frown pulling on his bandaged cheek. “But who attacked a psychotic clown before he was fourteen?” 

Eddie hesitates, furrowing his brows until they crinkle. “Me,” he admits softly. 

“Yeah, and who stabbed Bowers with a knife he pulled out of his own face?” Richie pushes, raising his eyebrows until Eddie sighs and answers. 

“Me.” 

Richie smiles, sliding his hands down Eddie’s arms until he reaches his hands and squeezes them once. “Who stood up to his mother, and his ex-wife for putting him through shit?” 

Eddie smiles slightly, his back straightening so he’s no longer hunched in on himself. 

“Me,” Eddie says, confidence finally leaking back into his voice. 

“Yeah.” Richie nods, releasing Eddie’s hands when he remembers Bev and Ben standing behind them. “You’re braver than you think.” 

He listens as Eddie lets out a shaky breath, still nervous, but Richie would be more concerned if he wasn’t. “Thanks Rich.” 

He fights the urge to do something stupid and revealing in front of Bev and Ben, like pull Eddie into a firm hug or a bruising kiss. Instead he pats Eddie once on the cheek and walks over to the manhole again. He drops his legs in and sucks in a sharp breath to quell the rising fear in him. 

Behind him he hears Bev give Eddie her pole, voice soft and terrified as she murmurs. “This can hurt monsters, if you believe it does.” 

_We better damn believe we can hurt monsters_ , he thinks nervously, then takes the plunge, his stomach dropping, but he lands reasonably easily. 

The squeeze through the rocky plains is rough, and on a few sharper corners he’s not completely sure he’s going to fit, but then Richie remembers Mike’s broad shoulders and figures that if Mike can go through he can follow. The smell is putrid, and only worsens the deeper they maneuver themselves into the deep cavern. They catch up to Stan, Bill and Mike pretty quickly, so the seven of them are walking single file now, so close together they’re almost skinning each others’ heels. Eventually, with one final push through a rock face the sharp pathway leads into an open cavern. 

“And I thought Neibolt had stellar interior design,” Richie mumbles with a low whistle, drawing a nervous chuckle out of Eddie, which makes up for the chorus of _beep beep’s that_ the rest of the Losers dish out in response. 

The cavern is wide and gloomy, cracks of green light littering the dark room in long streaks, all circling around one spiny centrepiece. It looms over them, huge and all consuming, stretching like people drowning, their arms outstretched for the surface of the cave. 

“No, seriously,” Richie says, as they inch their way into the gaping trenches. “These decorations are _drop dead_ gorgeous,” he jokes, nudging a skull on the ground with his toes so no one misses the joke. Bill shoots him a Look with a capital L over his shoulder. 

“Oh come on that was funny! Stan! You can’t tell me that wasn’t funny.” 

Stan coughs into his fist to disguise a laugh but shrugs as though unamused. 

Richie wrinkles his nose, nudging Eddie’s shoulder teasingly until a smile crests his lips. “Tough crowd, am I right, Eduardo?” 

“This is why you have ghost writers,” Eddie fires back and Richie stumbles away clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. 

“Ouch! Eds gets off a good one!” 

They go quiet again as they make their way into the centrepiece, shifting around pires of rock and stiff spines splayed out like a giant hand. 

“This is it,” Mike says, turning from the head of the pack to look at them all. “This is where we need to complete the Ritual.” 

There is a deep sense of foreboding in the palm of the centrepiece, Richie suppresses a shiver, feeling colder than he ever has in his entire life. 

“IT can only be attacked in its true form-” Mike continues, filling the silence sitting heavily over the Losers. “The Ritual will show us that.” 

“What is IT’s true form?” Ben asks, his voice wavering with fear. 

“I hope it’s a puppy,” Richie mutters, rubbing his sweaty palms against the sides of his jeans. 

Bev lets out a little snort, barely managing to conceal her smile. 

“We c-c-can only hope,” Bill agrees with a crooked grin. The other Losers huff broken, almost dejected laughter, amusement overshadowed by the crawling fear in their skin. 

Mike doesn’t even crack a smile. It’s kind of heartbreaking to see. Richie knows that he and the other Losers all bear guilt and a fault for how hollow Mike is these days. He’s barely smiled at all since the Losers remembered Pennywise. It’s such a contrast to his easy smiles and warm affection when they were younger that it leaves a painful ache in Richie’s chest. He can only hope that if, _when_ , they get out of here, that being with the other Losers, safe from the presence of IT in the back of their minds, will draw Mike back out of his shell. 

For now, he just accepts Mike’s stoney expression and the solemn way he says, “IT’s true form is light. Light that can only be snuffed out by darkness. Which is what we’re going to do.” 

_That’s ominous as fuck_ , Richie thinks, watching Mike uncap a small canister of gasoline and pour it into the Ritual container, lighting it up with a match. The fire ignites faster and more intensely than simple gasoline and a match should achieve, but a too healthy fire is by far the most believable shit that’s happened within the last hour so Richie doesn’t question it. Even with a strong flame the fire does nothing to quell the chill that has settled around his bones. 

“Okay, now the artifacts,” Mike instructs, stepping back and away from the flame. They all pull their tokens out, holding them in two hands like precious treasures. With pieces of paper and objects held in their hands they stand looking at each other, silent and unsure of how to continue. 

Bill steps up first, holding a blood and water stained paper boat in one hand. “This is the boat that I built with G-” they all stay silent, holding their breaths as he freezes on the word, mouth moving around the sounds but unable to force them out. “With G-Guh-Georgie.” He throws the boat without ceremony into the open flame. Richie has so many questions, the main one being how the _fuck_ Bill got that boat, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he waits patiently for the next Loser to step forward with their artifact. 

Richie watches Eddie take a quivering breath, he’s next in the circle and that makes it his turn. He holds out his inhaler, plastic blue and shining in the light of the fire. “My inhaler, because, well you know,” he says seriously. He grips the thing tight in his fist, staring at it for a moment like he doesn’t want to let go, but he does. He drops it into the fire and retracts his hand quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. Richie offers him a proud smile when he glances over to meet his eyes. 

“Something I wish I had held onto,” Bev says cryptically, her eyes darting to meet Ben’s on her left. She drops a postcard into the flame, folded creases down it in a cross and blood dried across it. Ben follows quickly after, dropping a thin piece of paper with a small doodle in the corner into the container. Richie watches as it shrivels up and burns. 

“A receipt,” Ben says, staring at the ground sheepishly. “From my first date with my soulmate. I probably should have forgotten it, but, I kept it in my wallet… for twenty-seven years.” 

Bev’s cheeks flush red endearingly, smiling at Ben like he hung the moon. 

Richie doesn’t envy Stan, having to follow that. Stan holds up a tattered notebook, his name neatly written on the front in young Stan’s measured script. “My bar mitzvah notes,” he explains, throwing the book into the fire without a moment’s pause. 

Which brings the circle to Richie. He’s not ready to have a conversation about why the token means so much to him, why it represents a meaningful event, so he keeps his description simple and plain. 

“This is a token, from the Capitol Theatre Arcade,” he says, holding up the little silver coin so they can all see it and throwing it in. 

“Wait, you brought an actual token?” Stan asks incredulously, watching the coin hit the bottom of the container. 

Richie sighs heavily, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. “Yeah, that was the fucking brief.” 

“Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take to burn?” Eddie asks from across the circle, his arms crossed across his chest and an eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Richie huffs. “Yeah asshole but so is your inhaler. All the toxic fumes and the plastic and shit?” 

Mike moves on with the ritual, ignoring their bickering. He holds up a small object, Richie has to squint to see it in the darkness. It’s a fist sized rock, and like Bill’s boat and Bev’s postcard, is splattered with dried blood all along the right side. 

“This is the rock Bev threw at Bowers,” he says, turning the rock over in his palm. 

Bev breathes a quiet laugh. “Rock fight,” she remembers, meeting Richie’s eyes. He smiles at her, the shared memory of his shout echoing in all of their minds. 

Mike nods slowly, staring at the rock deeply for a moment before moving to throw it in. “The day these bonds were forged,” he says. 

Eddie mutters, “That’s not going to burn either,” and Richie has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from laughing. 

“Hold hands,” Mike instructs, holding out his hand for Richie to take. His grip is strong and rough with callouses, compared to the soft and skinny hold of Stan in Richie’s other hand, but both touches are equally grounding and comforting. He watches as slowly each of the Losers link with each other, with gentle but firm grips. A circlet of love and affection, a bond between them that will never be broken. The moment that Bev and Eddie join hands, the final pair in their ring, the flame in the centre of the circle snuffs out. 

“What the fuck?” Stan says, taking the words right out of Richie’s mouth. 

With none of their torches in their hands the darkness that envelopes them is all encompassing. Richie wouldn’t be able to see a hand waving in front of his face, let alone any of the other Losers. 

“Mike? What’s happening?” He asks, squeezing Stan and Mike’s hands tight in his own to now lose them. Wind whistles around them, fast and furious, trying to bowl them over. 

“I don’t know!” Mike shouts over the wind’s howls. 

A loud echoing crunch sounds through the cavern, the sound travelling above them and resonating down until it’s surrounding them on all sides. Light floods in with it, bright and furious, illuminating their terrified faces. Richie’s eyes jump to Eddie’s, quickly taking him in, scanning him from tip to toe, just in case something went wrong in the time they were blinded. Their eyes meet, the panic that Richie feels is mirrored perfectly in Eddie’s eyes, dark brown jumping over his body. 

_I love you so goddamn much_ , Richie thinks hysterically, committing every part of Eddie to memory in case this is his final moment; from his fluffy windswept hair to his soft cheeks, to his stupidly beautiful eyes. 

“What the fuck is that?” Stan asks, his hand clammy and squeezing tight in Richie’s grip. 

The light shifts, from a pouring encompassment of brightness, to three luminesce bulbs. Richie registers what they are seconds before Mike shouts at them. 

“Don’t look at them! They’re the Deadlights! Don’t look at them!” 

Richie squeezes his eyes shut, anchoring himself to the feeling of Stan and Mike’s hands in his. 

“Turn light into dark,” Mike is chanting, roaring at them to do the same. Richie’s chest feels too tight, like he doesn’t have enough room for oxygen, and he wonders wildly if the Deadlights are vacuuming the air from the cavern. 

He shouts the words like they’re the only thing in his vocabulary, ignoring as they scrape the dry and airless walls of his throat. He forces them out religiously, praying with everything he has that this fucking _works_. He has to believe it can work, because he doesn’t know what to do if it doesn’t. 

The Deadlights pass by them and Richie doesn’t need to see them to know exactly where they are, their presence surpasses the natural senses. They give off a heat like burning stars, and for a moment Richie is positive that this is what it feels like to stand on the surface of the sun. He feels them enter the container, as each individual enters a weight the size of a house is removed from Richie’s chest. 

Mike’s hand slips out of his and they all trail off from their chanting as he forces the lid onto the container. It’s off kilter, something pushing the corner up, and Richie only has a second to think _that doesn’t seem good_ before the lid is getting pushed up. 

“Is this a part of it?” Bev asks, her voice trembling and terrified. 

“Is this supposed to be happening?” Richie asks, even though Mike’s frantic expression and desperate shoving of the lid, trying to contain the red, says otherwise. 

Mike doesn’t answer either of them, instead shouting, “keep chanting!” with such a raw fear that Richie has to take a deep breath through his nose to keep himself from unloading his stomach onto the floor in front of himself. 

“Turn light into dark!” He shouts with the other Losers, their chanting steadily becoming weaker and less synchronised as their faces turn wide eyed to stare at the red steadily forcing its way out of the container. 

It’s a balloon, Richie realises. A huge red balloon, inflating at an alarming rate and not stopping. It fills the space between them with bright, vibrant red, growing huge and pushing them backwards and away from each other. 

“Eddie!” Richie shouts, his voice scratchy from chanting, fear pressing on all sides of his throat. He heaves a lungful of air, scrambling over the ridges of the centrepiece that threaten to knock him off balance as the balloon swells. He can’t see Eddie, but he can hear him calling out for Richie, raw and desperate. 

The balloon towers over them now, larger than the cavernous centrepiece, a huge looming red beast, growing steadily larger and larger. Richie has the sudden thought of _what happens when it’s too big?_ Just seconds before the balloon pops. 

A sonic boom goeds off in the centre of the cavern, the force of the explosion knocks Richie off his feet, hands sliding along the rocks to catch himself and slicing open his palms. His ears ring, the entire world is muffled like he’s underwater, echoing in the canals of his ears. Bill is closest to him, he wraps his hands around his arms and tugs him to his feet, they’re both leaning on each other, shouting for the others even though they can barely hear each other.

“Eddie!” Richie calls again, voice hinging on desperation. Every second Eddie is out of his eyesight in this godforsaken place a second too long. As his hearing clears it’s simultaneously too quiet and too loud at the same time, their voices echoing around the cave and reverberating loudly back at them. 

“Richie?” Eddie calls, and he whirls around on his heel, that tight clenching around his chest relaxes immediately when he meets Eddie’s eyes. His relief is mirrored so intensely back at him in Eddie’s face. 

Eddie surges forward, wrapping his arms around Richie’s middle and holding tight, more intimate than anything they’ve done before but none of the Losers even spare them a second glance. Mike and Stan walk over to them so they’re all pressed close and tight together, terrified but not willing to admit it. 

“Did we do it?” Richie asks, pressing the words into the crown of Eddie’s head, still holding him tightly like he’s terrified of what will happen if he lets Richie go. 

“Did we do it?” The question echoes back at him, his own words around the cavern and the Losers repeating the question, all their eyes on Mike, who - terrifyingly - looks just as unsure as the rest of them. 

Bev’s torch climbs and climbs, scanning for danger, Richie can see it in her eyes that she can sense something is wrong. He can too, they all can. There isn’t the sense of relief he imagined he would feel once he knew IT was finally dead. No weight has been lifted off of the Losers Club’s shoulders, and that’s telling. 

“Boo!” The clown shrieks when Bev’s torch falls on IT’s giant face. The Losers scramble backwards, a microcosm of fear. Richie’s heart is thundering in his throat, cutting off his breathing like a sharp pressure on his airway. Eddie leapt out of his arms when the clown spoke up, and Richie longs to hold him again, to draw strength from Eddie’s bravery, to reassure himself that they’ll be okay. All their torches are illuminating the clown now, IT’s yellow eyes glowing in the bright light. 

IT smiles at them, like IT’s about to laugh but is trying to hold it in, mocking them. “Did it work? Did it work Mikey?” Richie sees Mike flinch out of the corner of his eye, but he can’t turn to look at him, eyes fixed to the clown like he’s in a trance. Trapped in his fear like a fly in honey. “Tell them Mikey. Tell them _why_ your silly little ritual didn’t work.” The clown is moving, slowly and deliberately, staring at them through the holes of the centrepiece like they’re playing the most demented game of peek-a-boo to ever exist. 

No one says anything, so the clown continues. “Tell them Mike. Tell them it’s all just a… what’s the word Eddie? _Placebo_?” Richie feels sick, his stomach is turning and there’s a part of him, right at the back of his mind hissing that he knew all along, he could tell there was something off from the minute Mike suggested the ritual. 

“Mike?” Eddie asks, his voice is quiet and broken in a way that claws into Richie’s stomach and tears him open. “What’s he talking about?” 

Richie remembers Eddie coming to him when they were young, only a couple of days after the fight with IT, shaking and blinking back tears as he recounted everything about his pills. Terrified, realising that everything he had been told about himself was fake, a lie. 

“You didn’t tell them did you Mikey? Didn’t want them to know what _really_ happened to the poor Shokapiwa.” The clown sneers, peering over two sharp stalagmites. IT laughs maniacally as their faces drop.

“Mike?” Bev asks, a little broken, her anger palpable. 

Tears run in tracks down Mike’s face, shining in the harsh light of their torches. 

“They d-didn’t- they didn’t believe! I-It didn’t work back then because they didn’t believe! I thought- I knew we could believe!” 

Richie wants to put his hands in his hair and scream, heavy anger sits like a boulder in his ribs, not necessarily at Mike, but at the whole situation, at the fact that he’s even here. He can feel Eddie shaking beside him, stepping backwards two paces then forwards again, like he can’t decide whether to run or fight. 

“We needed something,” Mike’s voice is shaking and Richie is so furious with him but also so desperately wants to hug him like he did outside The Jade. He wishes he could tell him it’s okay and mean it, but none of this fucking shit is okay. “We needed something to remember! To believe in! I thought it would work I _swear_.” 

“Fuck!” Stan shouts, although whether at Mike or IT crawling out of the centrepiece is unclear. 

“Twenty-seven years,” the clown bemoans, each of IT’s claw like feet hitting the ground in staggering blows that make the rocks around them jump. “I dreamt of you. I _craved_ you.” Richie’s stomach is coiling, his guts twisting and turning like eels. “Oh I’ve MISSED YOU!” The clown shouts, so loud Richie’s eardrums throb painfully. Eddie’s hands are on his arms and all the Losers are shifting back, except Mike, as the clown marches forwards, licking IT’s chops eagerly.

“Mike you’ve gotta move! Come on Mikey!” Richie is shouting, the other Losers joining in desperate attempts to get Mike to safety. The clown leers over Mike, a predatory grin stretching his grotesque face. 

Mike shakes his head back and forth, not moving, staring at Pennywise like he’s welcoming death, like he believes he deserves it. “I’m so sorry guys, I’m so sorry,” he’s chanting, like the mantra about light and every one before it. 

“Time to float,” the clown says rhythmically, tauntingly, like the song Bill once recounted Georgie singing to him. IT stretches a hand back, claw poised and preparing to strike down Mike. Richie is shouting barely coherent pleas for Mike to move. 

Bill dives forward and shoves Mike out of the way as the claw strikes the ground, hitting the stone floor in a deafening crash and forcing up debris and dust in Mike’s wake. 

Richie surges forwards with the rest of the Losers Club, seizing at Mike and Bill and pulling them to their feet to scramble away from the clown’s furious advances. IT charges at them, like a bull towards a red flag, snarling and snapping at the air as the Losers dart and scramble away from IT. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Richie screams, yelling expletives unconsciously as he runs for his life. He only just manages to duck to the left in time to dodge a chunk of debris that IT launches at his head. The other Losers are shouting and crying out for help, ducking into caves and crevices to avoid IT’s chase. Richie propels himself to run faster despite his muscles screaming in protest, his eyes trained on the back of Eddie’s head. 

He seizes a hold of Eddie’s hand, lungs burning as he pulls them into a thin jagged path cutting into the rock face. One of Pennywise’s twisting tentacle claws follows after them, because _that_ is something IT can do now. His chest is burning and every breath seems to be caught in the hollow between his ribs and his throat but he runs faster, using Eddie’s sweaty hand gripping his as a desperate lifeline. He’s faster than Richie, always has been, and Richie lets him tow him along until they reach a dead end. 

They pull to a stop, feet kicking up dust as they halt at the sight of the dead end. Three doors line the cave wall. 

_Not Scary at All. Scary. Very Scary._

“Not this fucking shit again,” Richie groans, his breaths coming out in hard and sharp pants. Eddie shoots him a terrified and disbelieving look, one hand resting between Richie’s shoulder blades, encouraging him to breathe. 

“ _Again_?” Eddie asks. 

Richie stands to his full height, wincing when Pennywise’s claw snaps behind them, a warning to choose a door or risk being attacked from behind. 

“Yeah, he’s fucking with us. They’re switched.” Richie points to _Very Scary_ decisively. “That one is Not Scary At All.” 

Eddie blubbers and makes aborted noises of protest as Richie marches his way over to the door. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes I’m sure. The fucker did this to Bill and I when we were kids.” 

Eddie slaps at Richie’s shoulder until he stills. “What if IT’s fucking with us again?” 

Richie pauses. It’s a very real possibility, IT has a knack for knowing exactly what the Losers will do and fucking with that. 

He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.” He yanks the door open. 

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Richie says when his eyes adjust to the interior of the room.

It’s a closet. 

_A little too on the nose don’t you think?_ Richie thinks to himself as he scans the perimeter of the small space. It’s dimly lit and lined with musty and pilling clothes, like no one has worn them in years. There’s an off smell, a pungent sweet quality to it, underlaid with a metallic tang that Richie can almost taste in the back of his throat. He identifies the smell as dried blood from familiarity and he only gets a second to consider how fucked it is that dried blood is a familiar smell to him when a hissing voice interrupts his train of thought. 

“ _Welcome home Richard. Welcome home Edward._ ” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie says, his hands seizing Richie’s arm and tugging him backwards away from the door. A hand creeps out from between the moth-eaten coats, fingernails scratched raw and dripping with blood. Eddie’s hands are squeezed tight around Richie’s arm, one tucked into the crook of his elbow and the other gripping his shoulder. Richie savours the touch as a way of knowing Eddie’s okay, without having to take his eyes off the boney hand. It reaches up towards the light pulley hanging from the centre of the closet, blood hitting the ground in dripping _plink, plink, plink_ noises. 

The light switches on with a resounding click, illuminating walls scratched and torn by fingernails, bloody streaks lining the tears in the wallpaper. At the very back of the closet there’s a bundle of clothes which had previously been shrouding by the darkness. Only, it’s not clothes, it’s a pile of human limbs, him and Eddie. Their glassy eyes set in the decapitated heads are sitting at the top of the pile, their torn apart bodies cloaked in a rainbow pride flag, torn to shreds. Written above the horrifying display in drying blood is “ _Should’ve stayed here. Would’ve been safe here.”_

“Fuck,” Richie says, the word wheezing out of him as if he was punched in the stomach. A harsh tightness in his chest and an ache in his gut like he’s going to empty its contents onto the moulding carpet of the closet. Eddie’s grip on his shoulder is vice tight, and Richie is acutely aware of his breaths coming too short and raspy. 

_“Come home Richard. Come home Edward,”_ the disembodied voice hisses. The hand beckons to them with one crooked bleeding finger, inviting them into the closet. _“Come stay.”_

The pile of limbs moves separately, a pair of legs running towards Richie and Eddie, Eddie’s hand crawling along the floor, fingers pulling themselves closer. 

“No fucking thank you,” Richie gasps out, slamming the door closed with as much force as he can muster. It hits against the frame with a satisfying crash. 

“God, oh God, fucking God,” Eddie is mumbling, his hands pulling and tugging seemingly aimlessly at Richie’s shoulders and arms until Richie finally realises what he’s trying to do and turns in his grip so they’re face to face. Eddie’s hands bracket his head and the air whooshes out of him in an unsteady exhale. He watches as Eddie’s eyes flick over his face, his eyes, his mouth, his brows, taking inventory and gauging how badly Richie is shaken. 

“He’s not fucking with us,” Richie chokes out, intending for the words to be humorous but instead they come out broken, the tail end breaking off into a terrified sob. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to stop himself from crying, nodding roughly and pulling Richie into a hug. Eddie’s forehead is warm against the skin of his neck and they gasp frightened heaves in tandem until their breathing slows. Pennywise’s claw continues to snap behind them but Richie is barely even aware of the sound. With every blink his and Eddie’s lifeless eyes burn into him, but with every one of his shuddering inhales Eddie’s exhale against his collar reminds him that they’re still okay. 

“Okay let’s try Not Scary At All,” Eddie suggests when the claw seems to edge closer, pulling apart from their embrace but not letting go of Richie’s shoulders.

Richie nods. “Okay, yeah let’s do it,” he says, sounding braver than he feels. He pushes the terrifying mental image as far from his brain as he can. That’s a problem for future Richie and a therapist to unpack when they get out of this hellscape, but for now, he needs his attention to be on keeping himself alive. To keep him and Eddie alive, he thinks, looking at Eddie as he steels himself to open the ‘Not Scary At All’ door. 

“You ready?” Eddie asks, hand poised on the doorknob. 

Richie rolls his shoulders, heart still pounding wild and painfully against his rib cage. “Born ready,” he says. 

Eddie throws open the door as cautiously as Richie had opened the _Very Scary_ one, that is to say, not cautiously at all. He leans backwards into Richie as though preparing for something to leap out at them. Nothing happens. The other side of the door is a thin rocky hallway, not unlike the one they are standing in. 

“Alright, it’s all clear,” Eddie whispers, as if Richie isn’t looking over his shoulder and seeing the exact same empty hallway. They go to take a step forward in tandem, then stop with a halt, Richie’s torch light having skimmed along something on the floor. 

Their beams of light intercept over a small pomeranian puppy, its tongue lolling out and its head tipped happily, little fluffy tail wagging happily. 

“Oh _shit_ ,” Richie says in a hushed voice, leaning backwards away from the adorable puppy. 

Eddie is tense and cautious beside him, his muscles straight as a rod and his hand stretched out across Richie’s body, a protective barrier between Richie and the dog. 

“No way am I falling for this shit,” Eddie hisses, and Richie nods his head in agreement even though they aren’t looking at each other. 

“Yeah that thing’s a fucking monster,” Richie says back, ducking down to inspect the curious dog and glaring as menacingly at it as he can manage. “I know your moves you little shit.” 

The dog pants in what can only be described as happily, its little tail waving so fast it’s just a fluffy blur in the bright light of their torch beams. It tips its head at them, adorable and small. 

“Richie tell it to sit,” Eddie demands, shoving at Richie’s shoulder roughly. 

Richie pauses, staring at the tiny puppy. 

“Sit,” he instructs, maintaining eye contact with the pomeranian. The puppy pants loudly as though laughing at him, although that could be his distrust of the creature, and sits easily, plopping its fat fluffy bottom down on the ground. 

“He did it!” Eddie gasps, joining Richie in leaning in over to look at the small dog. It tilts its head with its smiling mouth. _Okay that’s kind of cute_ , Richie is willing to admit, he’s not heartless. The dog gives a little yap and Richie’s heart melts. 

“Damn it he’s cute,” he grumbles as the dog’s tail swishes along the dusty ground. 

“That’s a good boy,” Eddie coos, his nose scrunching up and pulling faces at the puppy. Speaking of cute, Richie’s stomach flips. 

“That’s actually super cute,” Richie agrees, unsure whether he’s talking about the dog or his soulmate beside him. 

The dog’s mouth stretches too wide into a smile, and in a sudden flash it’s huge and deformed, snapping at them and growling so loud it rattles Richie’s lungs against his ribs. It lets out a guttural roar and Richie screams in response. The mutilated creature bites at the air in front of him, lunging forwards towards them. 

“Holy fuck!” He shouts, grabbing Eddie by the shoulders as Eddie slams the door closed. “Fucking fucker! Mother fucking shit!” He curses as they run back down the passage, with Pennywise’s claw having disappeared. 

“Next time we just go with regular scary,” Eddie pants as they slow to a jog. 

Richie spins around to meet his eyes, hoping his incredulity is as plain on his face as he feels it. “Nexttime?” 

Eddie lets out a sputtering adrenaline filled laugh as they run and Richie can’t help but smile alongside him, nerves will do that to a person. 

Richie pulls ahead of Eddie, running towards the sound of one of the Losers yelling and the clown laughing maniacally. His eyes fall immediately on Mike when he stumbles around the corner into the main cavern. He’s wrapped in one of Pennywise’s squirming tentacles, a talon curled under his chin in warning as IT hisses in his face. “You’re a madman.” 

IT bares his teeth, eyes shrinking back into his head to unhinge his jaw in preparation to feast on Mike. Richie barely thinks before he’s shouting at the monster, only concerned with keeping his friend safe. 

“Hey fuckface!” He bellows, standing tall as Pennywise growls, turning to him with hungry eyes and tossing Mike against the rock like a discarded toy. Richie swallows roughly, picking up a rock from the ground and doing his best to not let the fear get to him. 

“You wanna play truth or dare?” He mocks, remembering how the clown had mocked him when he was only thirteen years old, too young for the abuse he received. “Here’s a truth! You’re a sloppy bitch.” 

IT glares at him, yellow eyes darkening with anger as Richie measures the weight of the rock in his palm, taking a deep breath as he prepares to throw it. 

“Yeah! Let’s dance! Yippee-kay-yay motherfu-” 

The Deadlights swallow him like a predator tearing into its first bite of prey.

~-~-~

Three steps behind Richie, that’s all he was. Three steps. Just enough time for him to readjust his torch so it was once again a head lamp, so his hands could be free. Richie was running ahead, the three step difference enough for everything to go wrong. He hears Richie yell, hears him insult the clown like he’s never been afraid of IT once in his life. He hears a loud resounding hum that reverberates around the cistern like a solar boom. 

He rounds the corner in a sprint, his shoes kicking up stones and dust as he takes a sharp turn. His feet hit painfully against the stone ground, every footfall thumping hard in his ears. 

“Fuck,” the word slips out of Eddie’s lips unfiltered, an unconscious horrified reaction when his eyes land on Richie. 

Richie is hanging limp in the air, suspended like a marionette high above the ground. He’s tipped slightly away from Eddie, facing IT and the deadlights, but Eddie can see the glassy and white colour of his eyes. His mouth hanging open lax, frozen in the middle of a word. The harsh spotlight of the deadlights illuminating his sickly pale skin like a corpse. Their string floats through the air, twisting and coiling, long and fluid from how far away they are. 

“Richie,” Eddie gasps, clutching at the stone wall as he stares up at his soulmate. Eddie's stomach is at his feet, churning and ill with terror, desperate to have Richie safe in his arms. The only way to describe Richie’s appearance is dead, lifeless, limbs heavy and limp as he dangles ten feet in the air. It’s like a thing pulled out of Eddie’s worst nightmares. The leper, Myra, his mother, seeing his own body dead and mutilated in a closet, has _nothing_ compared to the sight of Richie dead to his surroundings and bleeding above him. 

Earlier in Neibolt he hadn’t been able to move at the sight of Richie being attacked, so overwhelmed it was like drowning in thick cement. He was paralysed, could do nothing but watch as Bill and Stan struggled to free Richie from the attacking spider with his head, a mutilated version of the child he had once been. His mind had been spinning, a ringing cacophony of thoughts that fixates on one point; the world altering fear of anything happening to Richie. 

Eddie imagines a life without Richie, images of it flash across his mind like needles puncturing his skin. 

Never being able to hear his obnoxiously loud laugh again. He wouldn’t be able to watch his crows feet scrunch as he throws his head back and losing himself to laughter at his own - likely stupid - joke. 

Never being able to tell him out loud, truly, how much Eddie loves him. How the love woven into his soul is so intense, so intrinsically a part of Eddie that it is flowing through his bloodstream, is embedded into every cell of Eddie’s body. That he never stopped loving him, even when he didn’t remember; that there was still a flutter in his heart when he saw oversized Buddy Holly glasses, still a flip in his stomach every time someone dared try to call him ‘Eds’. 

Never being able to kiss Richie like he has longed for as long as Eddie can remember. Every type of kiss he could give him; Bruisingly to shut him up, softly to cherish him, clumsy and messy as they kiss through laughter, short and sweet just to remind Richie how much Eddie loves him. 

Eddie is terrified of losing everything before he even has it. He hasn’t had the life he wanted for himself, he was braver when he was thirteen than he has been a day since. A young boy, barely on the brink of puberty, a tight package of rage and neurosis his mother had worked into him since he was born, but so brave he had been brimming with it. He had stood up to his mother, taken back his life, kicked IT in the face and screamed with exhilaration and held Richie’s hand as he’d done it. His thirteen year old self would be disappointed to see that he never utilised that bravery, that he left it behind in Derry when he left at seventeen. He slipped back into old habits and the normalcy of letting his mother control him, took the pills she handed him and forgot why he had ever stopped. 

Then, when his mother died, when he had the chance to finally be himself, to be brave and push the boundaries of his tightly regulated and controlled life, he instead slipped into the familiarity of a woman just like her. He had never given himself the opportunity to be more than his mother and Myra had made him out to be; a delicate and fragile man who needed to be protected. 

Richie isn’t like that. He has never seen Eddie as someone weak, or breakable, has never treated Eddie with safety gloves. When they were younger he was the first to pull Eddie into a tousle over ridiculous petty fights, rolling around and scuffling on the floor of their rooms or in the hammock of the clubhouse. He never once humoured the idea that Eddie couldn’t handle being rough housed and pushed, that he couldn’t take Richie at his most intense. 

Richie doesn’t just see that Eddie isn’t made of glass, but he encourages Eddie to push against his constraints. He encourages Eddie to be braver. 

_“You’re braver than you think.”_

Eddie wants to be braver. He wants to be braver and god fucking damn it he wants Richie by his side to do it. He wants to get his divorce finalised and kiss Richie until he can’t breathe. He wants to try all the foods he’s “allergic” to and for Richie to sit beside him with an Epipen just in case. He wants to push himself out of his 9-5, Monday to Friday schedule with every minute of every day planned, to branch his business further and do better things with it, and he wants to do all of that with his soulmate. 

He stares up at Richie and finally feels the chaos that is his mind go blessedly still. 

“This can hurt monsters, if you believe it can,” Eddie whispers to himself, clutching the fence post tight in his grip. “This can hurt monsters.” 

He launches the fence post through the air, a guttural scream tearing from his throat. 

“FUCK YOU!” He screams, his voice ringing in his ears. It echoes around the cavern, piercing the clown as the fence post lodges deep in IT’s throat. With a spluttering shriek of pain IT staggers backwards, curling fly trap lips closing back into the blood red lips of the clown and with it closing the tunnel to the deadlights Richie had been staring into. 

Eddie can hear the clown spluttering and coughing, badly injured, but not dead, he can hear it, but his attention is on Richie as he collapses to the ground, a puppet with all his strings cut. Eddie scrambles across the rock face to reach him. 

“Rich?” He shouts, dropping to his knees next to Richie’s crumpled frame. His eyes are glassy and dazed as he blinks, not focusing on anything in particular; he isn’t moving, but he’s alive, and that’s all Eddie cares about. 

“Rich? Hey Richie come on.” Eddie jostles Richie’s shoulder as gently as he can manage. The clown is still screeching in pain behind them and Eddie knows that they only have moments before IT is recovered and angrier than ever. Richie is unresponsive to his touch, blinking hazily like he just woke up. 

“Come on sweetheart you’ve got to move,” Eddie says, the endearment slipping out despite himself, too overwhelmed with the very real fear that Richie could have died in those lights. 

Richie’s eyes snap to him, the panic dropping from his gaze, giving way to warm and intoxicating fondness. “Sweetheart?” He questions, voice raw and croaky. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, trying his best to stifle a smile as he helps Richie to his feet. “Don’t get used to it dumbass.” 

Richie grins, the sight of it setting loose a hoard of butterflies in Eddie’s stomach. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Richie promises, staggering slightly with weak and sore legs. 

Eddie sees the claw, but Richie doesn’t. 

It’s hurtling towards them at an impressive speed, a sharp talon of fury aimed directly at Richie. Eddie doesn’t think. He acts on pure instinct alone. He doesn’t have time to do anything else. 

Eddie jumps. 

It takes a few seconds for the pain to register, and in that moment all Eddie can see is blood. So much blood. Splashed all over Richie’s stomach and hands. Blood that is meant to be in Eddie, pouring out of the gaping wound in his stomach. Time is painfully slow, like he’s wading through thick molasses. He looks down at the wound, the claw embedded through his torso and dripping with red sticky blood. 

“No,” Richie gasps, repeating the word again and again. The look on his face is unbearable, twisted with agony and horror, cheeks green and sickly with sweat. Eddie wants to reach out and smooth the creases between his eyebrows, to cup his cheeks and hold him tight until he never cries like this again. 

“Richie,” Eddie croaks, his voice catching on the blood clotting in his throat. His thoughts are so slow, the pain leaving him groggy and disoriented. He only realises IT is pulling him back through the air by Richie screaming out his name, rather than by his own awareness. His head snaps against his neck as IT flings him around, throwing him across the cavern but the blood in his mouth is so thick he can’t scream. The pain is searing, flashing in burning hot explosions of agony as Eddie tumbles down a chasm in the rock face. He screams out when he finally hits the bottom of the steep incline, his voice tearing out of him through the blood. 

Far away, Eddie can hear distant shouts of the other Losers and the loud noises of claws against rock as the clown thrashes around. His hearing goes muffled as he tries to shift himself and his chest and stomach burns. With a muted gasp all his muscle strength exhausts and he sinks back into the floor, his nose and cheek pressed into the rock as blood drips steadily from his mouth. 

“Eddie!” Someone shouts, Bill, or Stan, Eddie strains to hear them through the cotton wool stuffing his ears. The Losers are gathering around him now, their shoes scuffling against the floor as they reach the bottom of the cavern, yelling his name. 

He groans in response, grateful for the strong arms that wind around him, carefully maneuvering him into a sitting position. The arms are muscled and toned, Mike maybe, possibly Ben. Regardless, they gently lean him back against the rock. A piece of the stone face pushes against his wound and he screams, the pain so burning hot his vision whites. 

“Careful! Be fucking careful!” He hears someone shouting as he’s shifted to the left, away from the outward sticking rock. The pain eases back into an aching throb that pulses in his throat and ears. 

Eddie blinks away the spots of white in his vision, focusing on Richie’s face in front of him. He’s crouched down so they’re eye to eye, his face is still smattered with Eddie’s blood, and his eyes have that same wild and desperate worry from when Eddie was first stabbed. Richie shouldn’t look like this, he should be happy and smiling, Eddie hates it. He would do anything to make Richie happy, would rip his heart out of his own chest and deliver it to him if he thought it would bring a smile to his face. 

“Rich,” he gasps, spitting out a glob of blood stuck on his tongue. “Are you okay?” He slurs the words together, pain and blood loss leaving him drowsy. 

“Am _I_ okay?” Richie shoots back, eyes wide and disbelieving, like Eddie is insane for asking the question. Eddie’s eyes track Richie’s frantic movements as he sheds his jacket and holds it against Eddie’s steadily bleeding wound. He hisses in pain and tries to move away from the help, even though he knows it’s necessary. 

“Mmm,” he says, remembering Richie had asked a question. “Are y’okay? You look sad.” 

Richie blinks at him, wildly. 

“Jesus Christ Eds,” he says with a trembling voice. “I wonder why I’m fucking sad?” His tone is sarcastic but his eyes are oozing with terror, adoration, a desperate and primal concern that Eddie wants to wrap himself in. 

Eddie huffs a laugh and immediately regrets it. Writhing pain tears through him like an anguished soldier on a warpath. He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth through the worst of the anguish and slumping with relief when it dissipates like fog over a river, lulling back into the horrible ache that Eddie is learning to ignore. 

“I’m gonna be fine,” he assures Richie, but the black creeping into the edges of his vision is telling otherwise, blood dribbles down his chin as he talks, a trickle of metallic red. 

Richie looks completely unconvinced by Eddie’s words, but he says nothing to refute them, they both need the lie to hold onto. 

“Yeah Spaghetti,” Richie says, patting Eddie’s knee, stabilising the both of them. “You’ll be fine.” 

Eddie smiles weakly, his head lolling backwards against the rock face, heavy as a bowling ball. He listens absently as Richie and Bev talk in hushed, furiously stressed whispers about how Richie says they “need to get him out of here,” and Bev’s equally sensible question of “how are we going to do that?” 

Eddie zones out of the conversation, too overwhelmed by the pain to bother with listening to the logistics of the Losers’ argument over how to get him out of this godforsaken cave. 

His eyes glaze as he stares straight ahead, careful not to move too much with every breath so he doesn’t jostle the aching, throbbing pain in his sternum. All that bravery, and for what? Just so he could die on the dirty, disgusting floor of a sewage filled cave. He wishes fruitlessly, like a child wishing on a birthday cake for a pony, that he had managed to choke the damn leper to death. 

“Wait…” he chokes out, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. All the Losers turn to him immediately, Richie’s eyes wide and filled with concern as Eddie wheezes. “I almost killed it… the leper… I had my hands around its throat.” He holds up his hands in a mockery of a choke hold, low so he doesn’t shift his torso at all and risk the slicing pain of his injury. He focuses hard on Richie’s hand bracketed beside his face, Bev’s fingers stroking gently through his hair, anything to take his mind off the consuming pain of his stomach. “It was choking, I made it small… IT seemed so small.” 

Mike’s eyes widen in recognition. “All living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit,” he says, turning to Bev who reacts as though anything he just said made sense. They’re talking but everything feels muffled and out of focus except Richie’s face and hands and voice whispering assurances to Eddie as the other Losers devise a plan. 

The pain in his stomach is burning, like the hot plate of an oven has been shoved inside his torso. He only realises he’s making choked sobbing noises when Richie’s voice cuts through the pain like a balm, shushing him gently. 

“I know Eds, I know, you’re gonna be okay. I know it hurts, b-but-” he cuts off with a hitched breath. Eddie turns hazy eyes to look at his soulmate, Richie is a blurred and crying shape, but _God_ he’s so beautiful. Even covered in dirt and grime from the cave, his clothes crusted dry from wading through the sewage, eyes red and watery as he watches Eddie’s blood seep from the wound, he’s still beautiful. 

The other Losers have run from the cave, to carry out their plan, but Richie stays. His hand migrates from Eddie’s face to his hair, stroking through the sweaty strands lovingly. 

“Richie?” Eddie mumbles, his tongue sitting heavy in his mouth. “M’tired.” 

Richie’s eyes soften with sadness, still sharp around the edges in their fear, blue pools of emotion. He’s always been expressive, loud with his words and his hands and his facial expressions, an open book with a hundred secrets hidden in the pages. 

“I know love, I know, but you can’t sleep now.” 

Eddie groans in frustration, the darkness creeping into the edges of his vision is so inviting. A precious blanket of numbness where this pain will go away. His eyes slip closed but Richie’s hand taps at his face and pulls him awake again. 

“Fuck you,” Eddie slurs, scowling as best as he can while he pulls his eyelids open, heavier than dumbbells. 

Richie huffs a wet laugh. “You’ll thank me later Eds. Come on, you’ve gotta stay awake, I’ll get bored otherwise.” 

Eddie coughs and blood splatters down his chin, he winces at the feeling. 

“Dickhead, can’d even en’ertain yourself with th’ stupid clown?” Eddie jabs. It doesn’t make perfect sense but Richie laughs anyway, his expression endlessly fond as he stares at Eddie. 

“Nah,” Richie says, brushing a piece of Eddie’s hair from his sweaty forehead and pressing a tender kiss there. “I need my Eddie Spaghetti to keep me entertained.” 

Eddie smiles. “Fuck you. Don’ call me that.” 

The Losers scream from somewhere outside in the cavern. Eddie can’t make out much of what they’re saying, but he can tell that interspersing shouts of fear are calls for Richie, and he can see the way Richie’s eyes glance nervously towards the larger cavern, worried for their friends. 

“Rich,” Eddie says. The effort to speak makes the pain almost unbearable. He has to squeeze his eyes shut against the force of it, the world tipping on its axis and spinning as he grits his teeth so hard on his lip that he draws blood. “You’ve gotta- you’ve gotta go help them.” 

Richie’s eyes widen in horror at the suggestion. “There’s no way I’m leaving you,” he promises. 

“But-” Eddie tries, but Richie shakes his head, cutting him off. 

“No. You’re my- you’re- no. I’m not leaving you.” 

Eddie softens like an icecream on a warm summer’s day, dripping down his and Richie’s fingers as they traded the cone because they didn’t have enough allowance for two. 

“Yeah ‘m your soulmate… but they’re our _family_. Gotta help them,” Eddie says, reaching up and cupping Richie’s cheek with his blood covered hand. He ignores the flare of pain, focusing instead on the warm feeling of Richie’s skin under his palm, how Richie leans into it with tear stained eyes and a kiss to the soft flesh of his thumb. 

There’s so much Eddie wants to say to him, that he doesn’t have time for. He wants to say, thank you for being my best friend, for holding me through the shitstorm we called a childhood. Thank you for being my first and only love, for being my soulmate. He wants to say, I wish I got to live the life I deserve, a happy life where I got to be myself, I wish you were there for it, I wish you could have held my hand as I finally lived for the first time. 

More than anything, he wants to say those three words that they never did, because they were too scared. 

“Richie?” He whispers. 

Richie’s eyes are wide and worried, staring at Eddie desperately. “Yeah Eds?” 

“Don’t call me Eds,” he says, and smiles shakily, stroking his thumb along the soft line under Richie’s eye. Richie is crying softly, shaking his head against Eddie’s hand. “You know I… I…” Eddie closes his eyes, trying to bring the words to his lips, and as he’s trying the world goes black. 

~-~-~

Richie’s heart drops with Eddie’s eyelids, he feels like the air has been sucked out of the cavern like a vacuum as he watches Eddie’s head go limp on his neck. His heart is thumping in terrified beats in the deepest part of his stomach as presses his hand to Eddie’s mouth. Even though their string is still strong and stark between them, he’s filled with a desperate relief when he feels the broken exhale of Eddie’s breath against the palm of his hand. 

Eddie wakes up not even a minute later, groggy and disoriented, but alive. 

“Go kill th’clown,” Eddie slurs, his eyes glazed over, hand flapping, attempting to shove weakly at Richie’s shoulder but missing and instead just grazing his elbow. 

Richie wants to protest, to insist that he would never leave Eddie’s side, opens his mouth to say as much when Bev screams out his name and Stan follows soon after. He can hear that whatever they’re doing, making the clown small with their words or some bullshit, it’s working, but they need his help. He’ll never forgive himself if they don’t win this fight, because of him. 

“Okay,” he says quietly, stroking his thumb lovingly over Eddie’s cheekbone. “I’ll go help, but, _please_ , don’t go anywhere Eds okay?” 

Eddie chuckles, the movement making blood dribble down his lips. “Where ‘m I gonna go?” 

Richie wants to stay to debate, to remind him that when he says don’t go anywhere what he really means, is don’t die on me. Don’t leave me yet. I haven’t told you how much you mean to me, you can’t leave me now, not yet, not ever. He wants to hold Eddie’s face and press them as close as possible and tell him that when he says please, he really means that he doesn’t think he could survive the heart cleaving pain that would be losing Eddie. But Stan yells out for Richie again, and Mike does the same and he doesn’t have time to tell Eddie what he really means. 

“Just… stay right there okay?” He says, a little rawly, a little desperately as he pulls himself away from Eddie, walking backwards over the unsteady rocky plains so he can keep his eyes on Eddie’s plaintive smile for as long as physically possible. 

The Losers are gathered around IT, jeering and throwing insults as they close in towards the centrepiece where the entire shitshow began. Richie takes a second to pause and take in the scene, Bev screaming, her hair wild and eyes frenzied; Stan beside her, tears streaming down his face but brave, so goddamn brave. Mike, Bill and Ben close in from the other side, their hands interlocked and held tightly, drawing on each other for bravery and strength.

From there, killing the clown is easy. Laughably easy, so easy that Richie thinks that _Jesus Christ_ if he’d known it was as simple as verbal abuse and some hardcore bullying he would have finished the job in 1989. Lord knows he would have had better material to draw on back then, the shit he was yelled in the hallways of school _alone_ would have done the job thrice over if Pennywise was screaming in agony at their mediocre shouts of “clown!” and “nothing but a bully!” 

IT’s spider legs scrabble without purchase against the floor, like a half dead bug desperately trying to escape to safety. Richie stomps down hard on one of the scrambling appendages, snapping it in half like the wishbone of a Thanksgiving turkey and IT wails in pain, loud and ringing in the Losers’ ears. Richie stares down at the creature of his nightmares, shrivelled like a plum left in the heat of a summer’s day and simpering weakly. He’s disgusted to think that this weak excuse for a monster was ever given the strength to dare hurt Eddie. He hates IT, with every atom, cell and molecule of his body he _hates_ this fucking clown who dared to come near his family, to hurt his soulmate. Rage coils in Richie’s ribcage, burning and furious, a twisting serpant of pure fury. 

“Eater of worlds,” Pennywise croaks, like he’s pleading with them to believe him. IT’s lips are shining with saliva and sticky tears, inhumane, the skin around the clown’s eyes and mouth is cracking, flaking away in white chunks. IT looks pathetic. 

“Eat my ass,” Richie spits, and Bev lets out a loud delighted laugh. 

Bill puts a hand between Mike’s shoulder blades, urging him forwards, Richie’s grateful he does it. After everything Mike’s been through because of this fucking clown, left alone in this godforsaken town that seems trapped in a spiral of hatred, he deserves this. 

Mike inches forwards, reaching out a hand towards IT’s chest, grotesque and dripping with sweat. He stares furiously into IT’s weak pleading eyes, Richie can see the pain of the years without his friends burning in Mike’s eyes, the ache, the longing, the heartbreak, all at the hands of this monster. He can see the raw and passionate hatred in the eyes of someone so usually gentle and sincere. 

IT screams and bawls, like a newborn infant, grabbing at Mike’s hand attempting to to push him back. He ignores it, forcing his hand through the thin and flakey skin of IT’s chest and tugging out IT’s still beating heart with hard and uncaring eyes. 

The heart pumps and throbs in Mike’s outstretched hand, and the Losers all stare at it with varying degrees of disgust. Richie is horrified, as he stares at the weak and pulsating shell of what was once his childhood tormentor. All at once he realises how fragile, how frail and weak the clown always was. He joins Bev, and all the other Losers, their faces screwed up in disgust but eyes hardened and cruel as they stare at IT, in putting a hand on the heart. Richie feels vulnerable, exposed like the throbbing heart in his palm as they prepare to kill the monster; but despite the fear still jumping in his veins he feels powerful, strong, vindictive in the face of what once held so much control over him. 

Together, they squeeze. Richie clenches his eyes shut and tightens his grip around the squelching heart until the whimpers and cries of the clown go silent. Darkness encompasses them as the Deadlights are snuffed out like candles. A stillness falls over the cavern, like water on a lake settling after a stone hits it. The heart in their hands and the Losers stare at the shrivelled body of what once was a beast deteriorating into nothing but ash. 

This, Richie thinks, is what he expected to feel when the clown was gone. A bone deep knowledge that a monster inherently evil to its core was dead. The hold IT had around each of their throats, shrivels away and goes dark with the lights that were IT’s lifesource. Richie stands, basking in the relief of having killed IT, Bev’s forehead resting against his shoulder, for one, two, three seconds, before he remembers. 

“Eddie,” he mumbles, turning away and running from the centrepiece to where his soulmate is waiting. 

Eddie is slumped against the wall, eyes shut and his chest completely still. _No_ Richie thinks desperately, he can’t be gone, this can’t be how this ends. 

“Eds we did it, we killed it,” Richie smiles, his eyesight blurred as he lays a hand on Eddie’s injured cheek but he doesn’t even shift. He pats Eddie’s cheek again, willing him to please, _please,_ fucking move. 

Everyone is silent, waiting for Eddie to shift and say something, anything. 

The room around them groans, rocks falling loose from the roof as it threatens to collapse. 

“Richie,” Bev says, so softly he can barely hear it, his name pressed through layers of tears and hoarse thick pain. 

Richie ignores her, glancing down desperately at his right hand as tears fill his eyes. Their string is a firm line between them, still solid, still intact. He sobs with relief at the sight of it, the one line between them the only thing holding him together. 

“He’s g-gone,” Bill says, laying a hand on Richie’s shoulder. He uses his grip to try to pull Richie away, like Eddie wasn’t their fucking best friend, the lucky fucking _seven_ , not six, not five, no less than seven. 

“No he’s alright,” Richie says determinedly, his voice choked with tears but solid and firm. He runs his hand along Eddie’s arm, grateful for the fact that he’s still warm, for the grounding touch. “He’s okay, he’s just hurt, we’ve gotta get him out of here.” 

He turns to stare at them when none of the Losers move; they all look at him sympathetically with pain across their faces, but no one moves to help him. “What are you staring at? Guys, he’s _okay_ , we’ve gotta get him help.” 

“Richie,” Bev says again, this time with streams of tears dripping down her cheeks. Richie ignores her again, turning to look at Eddie, still and - not lifeless don’t even go there don’t even - against the rock face. “ _Richie_ ,” she repeats. 

He lets his head bow towards Eddie again as the walls around them shudder. “What? What Bev?” He demands, turning around to meet her eyes. 

“He’s-” she pauses, hitching on a sob. “He’s dead honey. We’ve gotta go.” 

The walls quake again; in the distance a stalactite falls and hits the ground, crashing into the floor with an echoing boom. 

“R-Richie we have to go,” Bill says again. Even Stan’s hands reach his arms, gripping him firmly. They don’t understand, none of them understand. 

“He’s not dead!” Richie screams, louder than he means to, loud enough to stop the Losers to stare at him. “He’s not fucking dead, he’s okay, please, we have to bring him with us.” 

Ben stares at Richie with emotive eyes, looking for all wants and purposes like he’s dying himself. “Richie we can’t,” he says quietly. “We _can’t_ , this whole place is coming down Rich and he’s-” 

“-If you _dare_ say he’s dead,” Richie warns, cutting him off. 

He turns and clings desperately to Eddie’s body, tucking his chin against his shoulder and letting the sobs consume him. Hysteracy is making him incoherent, he doesn’t know what to say, what to do. Eddie is his lifeline, his rock, he can’t leave him here. 

“He’s not fucking gone. If you want to leave, _fine,_ ” he spits, pressing his forehead to the side of Eddie’s neck and tucking them together. “Leave, but you’re leaving us _both_ to die.” 

Stan gasps like Richie just shot him clean through the chest. “Richie,” he pleads. “He’s already gone, you’re not, we can’t- you can’t-” 

“He’s not fucking gone Stan!” Richie shouts, he can’t think or breathe or do anything anymore. Eddie’s warm skin pressed against his is the only thing that matters and the dark red string between them that guarantees Eddie is alive. 

“Richie,” someone begs, there are hands on his shoulders trying to pull him up. The room shudders around them and Richie ignores it, holding Eddie tight to him. “We can still help him! Guys we can still help him!” He’s sobbing, shouting the words until his throat feels stripped raw, pounding his fists against whoever is close enough to reach. The Losers are pulling at him, dislodging his grip on Eddie until they’re separated; the loss of touch is enough to drive him to near insanity. He feels for a moment, as Eddie falls out of his arms and against the rock, like he can’t breathe, like he’s dying. 

There’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do to stop them. He’s weak from fear and the other Losers are far stronger than he is. His heart thunders in his chest, terrified. 

“Rich he’s gone, please we can’t lose you too,” someone is sobbing, gently pleading with him. Eddie and his string is an arching connection between them, growing longer and longer as Richie is pulled away from him, but intact. He grasps onto it with one hand, finally pushing the words out of him in a desperate sob. 

“His string, _fuck_ his string! It’s not cut! _Please_! ” He screams and everyone goes still. If it weren’t for the room crumbling around them it would be utterly silent. Hollow sobs are shuddering through Richie’s entire body, he succumbs to them, letting his head fall against his own chest. 

“Richie?” Bev asks, her hands soft against his cheeks as she helps him look at her. “His string?” 

“ _Please_. It’s not cut, he’s alive,” is all Richie can manage to say between sobs. 

“You can see his string?” Stan asks.

“ _Our_. He’s- mine. My- our string. He’s alive.” He’s not making sense, not even speaking English anymore, but Stan understands, he’s always understood. 

“Richie, come here,” Stan commands, turning to Mike and Ben. “Get Eddie,” he says with no further instruction other than a determined “He’s alive and we’re not leaving him here.” That must be enough for them, as the hands holding Richie drop away until he’s stumbling into Stan’s open arms. 

“We have to g-g-g-get out,” Bill says, leading the way. The procession only moves because Stan and Bev are on either side of Richie, ushering him to follow Bill like he’s forgotten how to walk. Maybe he has. 

“Eddie?” He manages to ask as they make their way through the jagged tunnel entrance. Stan’s hands are warm on his arm, grounding, his thumb rubs a circle on Richie’s bicep. 

“He’s here Rich. He’s just ahead see?” Bev says softly, pointing ahead of them to where, sure enough, Eddie’s limp body is slung over Mike and Ben’s shoulders, three or four jackets tied around his torso to plug the wound. 

They make their way through the hatch, up into the sewage water and through the familiar tunnels. The greywater is splashing at Richie’s hips when he sees the fraying. 

Their string, the grounding promise that Eddie is alive, connecting them together as it always has, even when they didn’t know it, is fraying. There’s a split, right in the centre, like someone is taking a knife to the strands and sawing them away, one tiny fibre at a time. 

“No,” Richie gasps, like the word is punched out of him. 

“Richie?” Stan asks, catching him as Richie almost collapses under the pain of realising he’s losing Eddie, he’s really losing Eddie. 

“Stan. It’s fraying,” Richie sobs, letting Bev’s grip on his hand pull him forward. 

Stan doesn’t say anything, because what can he say? Eddie is dying. Eddie is _dying_ , and Richie thinks he might be too, as his chest seems to concave in on itself with every fibre that wears away and flares out on the string between him and Eddie. He can’t do anything but be led out blindly, chunks of wreckage falling after them as they stumble out the door of the decrepit house on Neibolt street.

The house collapses behind them, but not a single Loser looks back as Mike and Ben lower Eddie to the ground, propping him against a rock with heaving exhausted gasps. Richie wants to thank them, but his vision is tunnelled, all he sees is Eddie. 

All he knows is Eddie, Eddie here, Eddie alive, Eddie dying. 

He runs forward, pushing himself out of Stan and Bev’s grip and dropping to his knees in front of Eddie’s still body. 

“Eddie please,” Richie sobs, pressing their foreheads together as close to Eddie as he can get. “Please Eds. Don’t leave me.” His tears are salty against his lips, his hands shaking where they are pressing firmly against Eddie’s jaw. He gathers Eddie in his arms holding him tight, Richie’s skin is clammy and warm against Eddie’s which is rapidly cooling. His mind is a buzz of frantic activity, terrified jumping thoughts bouncing off the walls of his skull. 

“Come on Eds. Baby please,” Richie’s voice crackles and warps around his tears. His heart is shattering and slicing him up from the inside, the shards snagging painfully against his skin. “Darling, you’ve got to wake up for me now, okay? Please Eddie,” his sentence is cut off by a sob tearing from his throat. 

He pulls away to check over Eddie, eyes scanning across the mutilated skin of his stomach, blood splashed across his polo top. Richie takes in his soulmate and realises painfully that there’s nothing he can do, sobs choking out of him in painful hitches. Their string between them is still fraying, fibres tearing away and flaring out. 

“No, please don’t do this to me,” Richie sobs hoarsely, crumbling as he clutches Eddie’s shoulders, his face, their string, trying desperately to do something to fix this. Anything. 

Something interrupts his grief, a heavy and freeing presence that swims across his mind, it rings through him, making his breaths feel hollow and loud all at once. He knows intrinsically that the presence in his mind is a turtle. It’s not that he can see it, he can feel it, the heavy hard weight of its shell, the sharp beak, the way its flippers push through Richie’s mind like they’re propelling it through water. It is huge and humming with energy, making Richie’s ribs vibrate as though they have been rung like a bell. It feels simultaneously exactly like the deadlights and also nothing at all like them, too peaceful, too comforting to be related to such a horrific and tormenting experience. 

_**K I S S** _

**_H I M_ **

The turtle presence in his mind demands. It doesn’t say it, because the demand is more of a knowing sensation than words that enters the synapses of Richie’s brain and presents itself as a thought, but it’s unmistakable nonetheless. 

And well, who is Richie to argue with a giant, omniscient turtle god? 

“Please be okay,” Richie begs, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He surges forward, pressing an insistent and firm kiss to Eddie’s lips. Distantly he’s aware of the Losers’ shocked reactions, but nothing matters except the warm point of contact between him and Eddie. 

It’s nothing like he used to dream, of course it isn't. In his dreams Eddie was awake, and not bleeding out, and they were both safe and smiling too much to kiss properly, endlessly happy. Dream Richie was always clinging to Eddie’s shirt, never his life. 

He pours everything he has into the kiss, every atom of his being that loves Eddie, the furious need to keep him safe. 

He kisses Eddie and he thinks _I love you_. 

_I love you and I never got to say it but dear fucking God you’re going to stick around long enough to hear it. I want to say it so many times you’re begging for me to stop. I’ll do anything, I’ll give anything for you Eddie Kaspbrak. I will give anything in the world to keep you alive, I will give you everything. My body, my soul, my life, it’s yours, every part of me is yours, it always has been._

And like an afterthought, a desperate pleading afterthought he adds for the Turtle God a _“Please”._

He pulls away, praying to every God he’s ever heard of that it worked. His eyelashes stick together with heavy tears as he pulls them apart, eyes focusing with shock at the string between him and Eddie. It is glowing bright red, shining in the dawn light like a beacon, a powerful force twisting through it as the fibres knit themselves back together from a small strand that was clutching on until the string is as good as new. 

“Holy shit,” he hears Bev gasp and Richie looks down to see Eddie’s skin doing the same. The muscles, tendons, blood and skin weaving together and smoothing out into scar tissue, pink and raised against the smooth pale skin but healthy and whole. Eddie’s entire body is glowing bright with energy, Richie can feel the vibrations of it pulsating off him where his hands are still holding tight to Eddie’s jaw and shoulder. Time succumbs into nothingness as the Losers Club watch with bated breath as Eddie’s injuries are stitched back together, until he is lying there with only a healed scar to show for the claw that had punctured through his sternum. 

Eddie gasps, jerking awake as if he’d just been resuscitated from drowning. His eyes immediately jump to Richie, scanning over him, concern and shock swimming in his deep brown irises. 

“Richie?” Eddie whispers, voice hoarse from disuse. He sounds confused, a little terrified, and a lot more concerned about Richie than someone who just almost died should be. Richie opens his mouth to say something, along the lines of _I love you so much_ or _I don’t know how I would have lived without you_ , but all that comes out is a wretchedly loud sob, tearing out of his throat. 

Eddie looks down, taking in with wide amazed eyes the smooth expanse of his stomach, riddled with a starburst of scar tissue in the very centre but otherwise unmarked. Richie makes another harsh sobbing sound as Eddie’s eyes well with tears, dropping a hand from Richie’s face to skim across the scar. 

“Oh my god,” Eddie murmurs with a broken and happy gasp, looking from his sternum to Richie’s face. Richie’s voice is completely lost to relieved weeping, but he doesn’t need to speak as Eddie’s fingers maneuver his jaw to pull their desperate lips together in a crushing kiss. It’s wet and salty with tears, both of them gasping and crying into every push and pull of their lips. It’s everything Richie has ever wanted. 

Richie’s stomach swoops as Eddie’s fingers wind into the short hairs around his ears, pulling Richie close until he’s clambering into Eddie’s lap. Their lips never separate, they’re filled with the desperation to touch, to kiss, to be close, close, closer still, finally being fulfilled after decades of waiting. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed warm, wet with tears, snot and blood against Richie’s hands, leaning into Richie’s touch like he is the only thing keeping him steady. 

They break apart as Eddie heaves a shuddering breath, keeping Richie as close as possible. Richie steals another kiss, and then another in short pecks, desperately drinking Eddie in. 

“I love you,” he gasps against Eddie’s lips, realising he still hasn’t said it out loud. Not in those words, those three perfect words. 

Richie feels Eddie’s chin tremble against his, tears dripping down his cheeks.

“Fuck,” Eddie whimpers, pressing a deep and bruising kiss to Richie’s lips. “I love you too,I love you so fucking much.” 

Richie pulls Eddie into another kiss, breathing in the happy gasp of surprise that Eddie lets out at the touch of their lips. His right hand trails down from Eddie’s face to his ripped shirt, laying a hand flat over the lump of scar tissue on Eddie’s torso to remind himself he’s okay. Eddie giggles happily into the kiss, the sound blubbering around his tears but ringing out joyfully. 

“I love you,” he says against Richie’s mouth. Richie shivers at the sweet taste of the words, the way they brush lightly against his lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Eddie repeats between every strong peck of their lips together. 

“I love you dickhead,” Richie snivels, pulling away from the kiss just to say it. Eddie smiles at him, slightly cross eyed to meet his gaze, their noses bumping together they’re so close. Richie’s heart twists at the realisation he almost lost Eddie , almost lost _everything_. He’s hit with another torrent of tears. He screws his eyes shut and presses his forehead to Eddie’s uninjured cheek, sniffling and pathetically snotty.

“Fuck you asshole,” he says. “I thought you were gone.” 

“I’m not gone Rich,” Eddie promises. Richie can feel his lips on the side of his head, pressing kisses to his temple, into his hair, to the shell of his ear. “I’m okay love, I’m okay.” 

Richie clings tightly to Eddie’s body, feeling the rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath, letting his own whimpers and hollow gasps taper out into trickling tears. He turns his face to kiss the hard slope of Eddie’s jaw, trailing firm kisses along his cheek, across the bridge of his nose and the soft indents of dimples when Eddie smiles. 

“Don’t do that to me ever again,” Richie demands, squishing Eddie’s cheeks between his hands so they’re firmly eye to eye. He drinks in the sparkle of Eddie’s deep brown eyes, glistening with tears. “Please, if we’re ever in a situation like that again-” 

“Next time we’re fighting a killer space clown I’ll keep it in mind,” Eddie cuts in sarcastically, words squished slightly by Richie’s hold on his cheeks. 

Richie shakes his head, staring at Eddie intently through the sheen of tears in his eyes and hopes Eddie understands just how serious he’s being. He releases his hold on Eddie’s cheeks but his hands don’t stray from him, sliding down his arms to clutch at his elbows. 

“I’m serious Eds, please don’t do that to me,” he begs, voice cracking around another sob. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Eddie snaps, his hands shaking as they shift from Richie’s hair to rest against his jaw. “Just let you _die_?” Eddie gasps around the word ‘die’ like just the idea of Richie’s death is a punch in the gut. 

“If it means saving your life! Yes!” Richie hiccups around his tears and shifts forward so his and Eddie’s foreheads are pressed together, needing Eddie’s touch like he needs to breathe. “Whatever it takes to save your life,” Richie says firmly, unwilling to hear an argument otherwise, even though Eddie gives him one regardless. 

“What the fuck? So my life is worth more than yours?” He asks, scowling when Richie doesn’t hesitate to snap back at him. 

“Yes! To me it is!” 

The last word of Richie’s sentence is cut off by another kiss, so deep and loving that it makes his toes curl and his head spin. Eddie’s tongue drags along the seam of his lips, exploring Richie’s mouth like he wants to taste every part of him, explore every inch of Richie’s body. An involuntary whine catches in Richie’s throat as Eddie’s fingers wind into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

Eddie pulls away with a pop, eyes shiny with tears and a little dazed from the force of the kiss, but narrowed in challenge, daring Richie to try and fight back. 

“I was never going to stand there and let you get hurt,” Eddie says resolutely, leaving no room for argument. “Ever considered that maybe to me, _your_ life is worth _everything_ , fuckhead?” 

Richie opens his mouth, makes a choked noise, and closes it again with a snap. 

“Okay? So get it through your thick skull.” Eddie raps his knuckles lightly against the side of Richie’s head to emphasise the point. 

“I’d rather die a thousand deaths than lose you.” Eddie’s fingers trace along the shells of Richie’s ears to cup his jaw and Richie leans into the touch instinctively. “I love you,” Eddie adds, softly, almost a whisper, but unwaveringly firm. 

“Fuck you.” Richie sniffles, pressing a kiss to the corners of Eddie’s lips. “I love you too.” 

Eddie tilts his head to recapture Richie’s lips with his own as Richie is leaning in. Richie sighs unconsciously at the touch, breathing Eddie in with every gentle brush of their lips. This kiss is softer than the others, a delicate and salty slide of their lips, a culmination of years of longing and desperation. It’s soft, and deep, Eddie’s hands winding through thick curls and holding Richie close as if he’s wanted to do it his entire life. He kisses Richie like he _wants_ him, like he’s never wanted anything more, and God does Richie want him back. The kiss is a promise, a vow, of more to come. Hitches of breaths and gasps that Richie breathes into his lungs are translated into swears and promises to never leave each other again.

“Not that this isn’t sweet, but I’d like to clarify that I’d prefer it if neither of you died,” Stan’s frustrated and amused voice draws them out of the touch. Richie startles, spinning around to meet the eyes of the Losers, having completely forgotten they were there. The Losers are all watching them, not a dry eye between them. Bev and Ben are both openly weeping, and despite his sarcastic comment, Stan looks just as teary eyed as the rest of them. 

“Eddie? You’re really okay?” Bev asks, her hands clutched to her chest like she’s trying to hold her heart in place. Eddie nods, his cheek brushing against Richie’s as he does so. 

“I’m okay Bevvie, really.” 

Bev lets out a gross sobbing noise, covering her mouth with her hand as her happy weeping turns to streams of tears pouring down her face. “I’m so sorry Eddie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave you I just didn’t want anyone to-” 

Eddie cuts her off with soft shushing noises, opening his arm to her in invitation of a hug. His other hand never strays from Richie’s neck, holding him close like he never plans on letting go; his thumb strokes along the line of Richie’s jaw tenderly, the pad brushing back and forth across the lobe of his ear. 

Bev throws herself into Eddie’s side, her arms winding tight around both Richie’s and Eddie’s shoulders. Tears start their slow trickling descent down Richie’s face again as Stan’s arms wrap around him from behind, his cheek laying against the curve of Richie’s shoulder blade. Ben is there in an instant, his toned arms strong and warm as they wrap around as many of them as possible, and Bill and Mike are quick to follow. They’re a mess of limbs and choked laughter through thick tears. 

The lucky seven, safe and together for the first time. 

~-~-~

There’s a barricade over the entrance to the quarry cliff now, and a sign that instructs “no jumping or diving at any time”. At some point in the Losers’ time away from Derry the town started giving a shit about things like recreational health and safety. Which is utter bullshit because other than Mike no one was doing _shit_ about the kids going missing every other day. So Eddie, and the other Losers, don’t even spare the sign a glance as they haul themselves over the barricade. They’re all silent, basking in the glory and relief of having finally rid themselves of IT. 

They toe off their shoes and shrug off overshirts and jackets, staring at the cliff face just as they had when they were kids. In a way that’s perfectly reminiscent of their childhood, Bev is the first to take the leap over the edge. She never hesitated the way the rest of them did, brave enough to trust that not only could she face the freefall, but she could stick the landing into the cool water below. The others leap after her, until the only two left are Richie and Eddie. 

“Come on Spagheddles,” Richie nudges Eddie with his hip. He noticed the way Eddie was peering over the edge, that his stomach was rolling at the idea of taking that leap, and like he always has and always will, he draws Eddie out of it. 

“I feel like you’re purposefully straying further from my actual name,” Eddie huffs, looking away from the water where their friends are now splashing around and meeting Richie’s smiling gaze. 

“You’re right. I apologise, Edward,” Richie shoots back with a knowing smirk. 

Eddie balks, shuddering. “Ew no, I take it back, stick to the dumb nicknames.” 

Richie laughs, throwing his head back. “I knew you liked them,” he teases, holding out his hand for Eddie to take. 

“On the count of three,” Richie says, squeezing Eddie’s palm. Eddie grounds himself with the touch, taking a deep breath and running the second Richie reaches three, leaping into the air. 

It’s as he’s falling that the last of the consuming fear that the hold IT had on their lives would never truly leave, falls away. He lets out a loud shriek of joy as he hits the water, never feeling so free in his entire life. 

Eddie knows they should be heading back to the Townhouse, that the musty water of the quarry is going to do nothing to clean off the layers of dirt, grime and blood coating them. They need a decent shower, and a full night’s sleep. Even still, he also knows they deserve this moment. This freedom that they’ve never truly been able to have with the presence of IT sitting over their shoulders, shaping their every move and choice. Eddie watches his friends, drinking in their presence, the tangible joy dancing between them all. Ben smiles dopily as Bev peppers kisses all over his face, his hands resting against her hips. Bill and Mike are laughing and talking in a low murmur that settles Eddie to his core. Richie and Stan have started some sort of wrestling match where they both seem intent on trying to drown the other, Eddie’s not completely sure who is winning, but he can guarantee that Stan isn’t losing. 

Eddie loves them all so much, it’s like a warm fire that sits in the core of his belly. Even in the cold water of the quarry he doesn’t feel the chill, the Losers’ presence is like carrying around a perpetual comforting warmth. 

He smiles as Richie breaches the surface with a gasp, Stan standing triumphantly behind him, clearly having emerged from the wrestle victorious. Richie shakes the water out of his ears, flicking his soaked bangs out of his eyes and Eddie thinks _God I love him._ Richie looks over, just as Eddie is thinking that, and smiles like he knows. A wondrous bright smile that makes the hairs on Eddie’s arms lift and his heart drum wildly against his chest. 

“Hey Eds?” Richie says, voice soft and warm like a caress. 

Eddie hums, drifting closer in the water. Richie smiles at him sweetly, pulling Eddie close until their noses brush, leaning in like he’s about to kiss him. A sudden wave of water hits Eddie squarely in the face, he splutters and coughs, glaring as Richie bursts into wild laughter. 

“You dickhead,” Eddie hisses, lunging forward and shoving Richie under the surface. He emerges laughing and coughing up a lungful of water, which Eddie probably should feel guilty for but Richie doesn’t seem too fussed, if the way he’s smiling up at Eddie fondly is any indication. The raw affection in his eyes makes Eddie’s stomach buzz with warmth, a love that fills him from his fingertips to his toes. 

Eddie smacks some water into Richie’s face. “You’re such a prick,” he mutters, the words coming out more affectionate than he means to. 

“No it’s bigger than a prick,” Richie fires back easily, standing up properly and draping himself over Eddie. 

“Gah!” Eddie grunts as Richie’s weight makes him stumble. “Get off me you oaf,” he grunts, staggering as Richie drops himself heavier across Eddie’s shoulders. 

“But Eddie,” Richie whines loudly in Eddie’s ear. “I’m all tired, I just fought a killer clown from outer space you know.” 

Eddie huffs, slapping playfully at Richie’s arms and legs as they do their best to wind around him. “We all did you fucking dickhead.” 

He pushes a hand over Richie’s face to try to maneuver him away and shrieks when he licks up the flat of his palm. 

“ _Richie!_ ” 

A short barely smothered laugh draws Eddie out of his and Richie’s bubble, he flushes a little when he realises all of the Losers are watching them. None of them have said anything yet, but Eddie can tell they want to. The whole walk to the quarry, their eyes had followed the swing of his and Richie’s intertwined hands, and on more than one occasion he saw Ben open his mouth only to snap it closed again. 

“What?” Eddie asks, doing his best to hide his self satisfied grin when Richie gives up his attempt to collapse on Eddie and instead nuzzles into his side. 

Bill shrugs. “It’s just nice that you two are still, you know, Richie and Eddie.” He continues when they all stare at him confused. “Like, you’re still the same you’ve always been, even though you’re soulmates.” 

Richie laughs a little, his breath tickling the side of Eddie’s neck. “We’ve always been soulmates Big Bill,” he points out. “We just kept it hidden. I was Eddie Spaghetti’s dirty little secret.” 

Eddie and Stan furrow their brows in perfect time with each other. Eddie shifts in Richie’s grip so they’re face to face, cupping Richie’s cheeks gently between his hands. 

“You were _not_ a dirty secret.” Eddie says bitingly. 

“Come on Eds, it’s fine I was just joking-” Richie tries to deflect but Eddie shakes his head, interrupting him. 

“Did the clown fucking say that to you again?” He demands. Stan mumbles something like “ _again?”_ but Eddie ignores him, focused wholly on Richie. Richie opens his mouth like he’s going to have another go at deflecting before he seems to think better of it. 

“Yeah,” he admits softly, eyes downturned with the memory and frown lines evident. Something twists painfully in Eddie’s chest, and it must flicker across his face because Richie’s quick to add. “It wasn’t too bad, it’s fine, Stan helped me out.” 

Stan mutters something else that Eddie misses as he presses a kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth, a soft touch to remind him of just how deeply Eddie loves him. 

“Nothing about you is dirty-” Eddie realises the opening for a joke at the same time Richie does and cuts over him, “except maybe your Trashmouth.” Richie pouts and Eddie’s heart jumps hopelessly. “And we never would have been a secret if we could have done anything about it.” 

“Why _did_ you keep your string a secret?” Ben asks curiously. Richie and Eddie turn to face the group at large, waiting patiently for their answer. 

Richie takes the question. “I don’t know if you remember but Derry didn’t - _doesn’t_ \- exactly welcome gay people kindly.” 

Eddie nods in agreement, smiling as Richie wraps himself around Eddie like a koala, his long arms curled around Eddie’s shoulders and their cheeks pressed together. 

“It was dangerous enough with people just _assuming_ things, let alone knowing the truth,” Eddie points out. The other Losers shift awkwardly as they undoubtedly remember the myriad of tormenting they went through as a group, even without counting IT. 

“B-but we never would have treated you like th-that,” Bill says sadly, his hands pushing back and forth in the water, creating small ripples. 

“Obviously not,” Richie agrees. 

Eddie shrugs. “It always just felt like a risk I guess, anyone knowing was another chance of it getting out.” 

The Losers consider this point and see the logic in it, but Eddie can tell they’re still saddened by all the years not knowing such a big part of them. They all lapse into a silence as everyone thinks and wades around the quarry. 

“Holy shit,” Mike says suddenly, drawing them out of their reveries. 

“What?” Bev asks. Mike is staring at the water with a small smile, like it’s a crystal ball telling him secrets. 

“You two used to be _so_ weird about talking about your soulmates,” he recalls, pointing at Richie and Eddie still entangled and floating together. “You were either crazy secretive about it or…” 

“... or more in love than anyone we knew!” Ben finishes with a smile that is equal parts romantic and teasing. 

“‘I think I’d do anything to be with them,’” Bev says softly to herself, like she’s recalling something, and it takes Eddie a moment to realise she’s quoting him, from their conversation just yesterday. 

“Bev,” he warns, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t say another word.” 

“Wait, Bev please,” Richie interrupts Eddie’s warning with begging eyes which would absolutely make Eddie crumble like a stack of cards, but just make Bev laugh. “Bevvie! Please say more. Say all the words.” 

“You sure you wanna start this game Trashmouth?” Stan teases, floating on his back with a wolfish smirk. “I’m recalling a bunch of conversations that in hindsight were quite obviously about a certain someone.” 

Richie blanches, at the same time as Eddie grins, lighting up like a firework. “Stan, tell me more immediately,” he begs as Richie shakes his head and mimes strangling Stan in the air. 

Wet hands slap over his ears so his hearing is waterlogged and muffled just as Stan opens his mouth. 

“Richie!” Eddie grumbles, pulling his head out of Richie’s grip. 

They mess around for a while, the others reminiscing about times where either Richie or Eddie were blatantly in love with the other, while the subjects of their conversation do their damn best to avoid the other hearing the revealing things their friends are saying. At one point Richie resorts to sticking his tongue in Eddie’s ear to distract him, which derails the entire conversation as Eddie loses himself in a tirade about how utterly _revolting_ that is, which eventually ends with Richie pulling Eddie into a firm kiss. Whether to shut him up or because Richie has a weird thing for Eddie yelling at him is unclear. 

Eventually they settle into another lull in conversation. It’s nice, Eddie thinks, to have people he feels so comfortable around that they don’t need to talk. They’re all exhausted, broken off into pairs and trios. Stan has taken to floating absently on his back, ‘accidentally’ kicking water into Mike and Bill’s faces periodically. Ben and Bev have ducked under the water and appear to be kissing under there, which means Eddie is doing his best not to look too often and be a creep whilst also double checking they haven’t gone and drowned. 

His head is tucked into the junction between Richie’s neck and shoulder, swaying back and forth lazily in the cool water. Richie has barely stepped more than arm’s length away from Eddie since they got out of Neibolt, but he’s hardly complaining. The closeness is reassuring, he likes how with every one of Richie’s breaths he can feel his own head rise and fall, physical and tangible proof they’re okay. Richie’s hands skate up and down Eddie’s sides, fingers trailing and drawing patterns absently over the curves of his arms, his hips, the small of his back. Eddie hears Bev and Ben emerge with little giggles and splashing noises, but he doesn’t lift his head, settled against Richie’s steady heartbeat. 

Eddie gets lost for a second in the fact that they can do this now. How many times had he dreamed about Richie’s arms around him as they splashed in the water of the quarry? Desperate to pepper his face with love, to steal his glasses and kiss him until his vision blurred so much it didn’t even matter. 

“Hey Bevvie, Haystack?” Richie breaks the silence after a while. Eddie lifts his head to look at Ben and Bev, but doesn’t move out of the comforting circle of Richie’s arms. 

“Yeah?” Bev answers for the two of them, cupping water in her hands and dropping it on Bill’s head. 

“Fucko the clown knew you guys were soulmates right?” 

Everyone pauses for a beat, turning to stare at Richie. 

Ben answers, significantly more hesitantly than Bev. “Yeah, he did. Why?” 

Richie hums, Eddie can feel it in his hands where they are resting lightly on Richie’s neck. 

“Did he ever use it against you?” Richie asks, it’s not a rude question, but it’s a touchy subject for all of them nonetheless. Ben and Bev shrug halfheartedly, and Bev tips her head back and forth as if to say _kinda yes, kinda no._

“I mean he would imitate Bev’s voice a lot, to- to make me chase after it,” Ben admits. Eddie thinks of himself running in the pharmacy towards the sound of Richie’s voice, knowing it was more likely to be the clown but too terrified to risk being wrong. He hates knowing Ben went through that as well. 

“Why Rich?” Bev asks, tipping more water over Bill’s head and grinning wildly when he frowns at her. 

“Oh.” Richie shrugs. “I was just wondering if he ever tried to cut your string?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, pinching Richie’s skin lightly to chastise him. 

The Losers look appropriately horrified, all frozen in place as if Richie had pressed pause on reality for a moment. Water is slowly trickling out of Bev’s cupped palms where she stalled just above the water, her eyes flicking between Eddie’s and Richie’s like she’s hoping she’ll find in one of their eyes that this is some sort of messed up joke. 

Ben is the one to break. “No, he didn’t. Did he do that to _you_?” 

“Yeah, he did,” Richie shrugs like he’s unbothered by the copious amounts of clown related trauma. 

“It happened when Richie and I got separated from everyone else in 1989,” Eddie explains further, when it becomes obvious Richie’s just going to leave it there. He can see it dawn on Mike, Stan and Ben, the memory of running into the sewers and finding Richie and Eddie sobbing and traumatised, tangled together and holding each other tight. 

“What the fuck,” Mike breathes. 

“That’s so fucked up,” Stan says, his eyes shifting between Richie and Eddie. A heavy silence falls over the Losers, nothing like the comfortable way they had been drifting before. This silence is oppressive and thick, pushing on Eddie’s shoulders like cement. 

“Hey guys?” Richie says, his voice bright and amazed as though he’s having a revelation, it cuts through the tension like a breath of cool air. “I think… I think Pennywise was a homophobe.” 

It shouldn’t be funny, it’s not funny. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that Richie grins at Eddie like he’s just told a marvelous joke, but whatever the reason, Eddie loses it. He snorts, laughter bubbling out of him like magma in a volcano, bright and sudden. Richie giggles too, loud obnoxious things that light up his whole face in a way that makes the nerves in Eddie’s body sing. Bev breaks next, and with her the rest of the Losers Club follow. 

They laugh and laugh, wheezing and clutching their sides when they become breathless. Every time Eddie thinks he might recover he catches one of the Losers eyes and another torrent of giggles overwhelms him. It’s wild and ridiculous, but it’s freeing to laugh about something so horrible in their lives. A dark spot that has clung onto them in every minute of their day, finally falling away as they splutter and chuckle and wheeze, adrenaline filled and overtired laughter dancing in the morning air. 

Eddie looks at Richie as they finally calm down, his bangs wet and stuck to his forehead, his eyes glittering with tears of laughter and thinks _I love you so much, I wish I could kiss you_. Then he remembers, with a fluttering happiness that swirls in his stomach, that he can. 

He surges forward, wrapping his arms around Richie and kissing him so deeply his toes curl. Richie makes a happy sound, a hum that rocks Eddie to his core and fills him with heat so intense it's like he’s burning, like he’s an electric wire exposed to the world, he loves it. 

When they pull away Richie smiles down at him, his hands resting steadily against Eddie’s hips to keep him in place. 

“What was that for?” He asks, voice low and soft, a moment just for the two of them. 

He shrugs, toying with the short hairs at the nape of Richie’s neck and biting his lip to hide a smile at the way Richie melts into the touch. “I wanted to,” he says easily, drinking in Richie’s wide eyes and soft smile. “I love you,” he adds, because he wants to, because he can. 

Richie’s answering smile is so genuine and beautiful that Eddie feels the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, looking into the sun is dangerous, his heart can’t handle this. 

Richie doesn’t need to say it back. The way he looks at Eddie, it’s obvious he feels the same. Eddie has always known he feels the same. He knew when they were thirteen and holding hands as they defeated IT for the first time. He knew when they were sixteen and Eddie was carefully removing gravel from Richie’s wounds and Richie was looking at him like he was ethereal. He knew when he was leaving and it hurt too much to hear it said out loud, and again in the car after decades apart. He knew then, and he knows now.

Still, when Richie leans in and kisses him so sweetly his vision swims, whispering, “I love you too,” against Eddie’s lips. Well, he thinks he can get used to hearing it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading  
> gosh i can't believe this fic is over
> 
> comments and kudos are GREATLY appreciated, i would love to know what you think 
> 
> i'm on both twitter ([frecklylance](https://twitter.com/frecklyIance)) and tumblr ([frecklyylance](https://frecklyylance.tumblr.com/)) so if you wanna come chat with me i'd love to hear from you!  
> well that's me signing off, thank you again for reading :))

**Author's Note:**

> what was your favourite part?? leave a comment and let me know !! i would love to know what you guys think !!
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :))
> 
> i'm on both twitter ([frecklylance](https://twitter.com/frecklyIance)) and tumblr ([frecklyylance](https://frecklyylance.tumblr.com/)) so if you wanna come chat with me i'd love to hear from you!  
> chapter 2 will be out this time next week and i'm so excited for you to read it !!!


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